To Kingdom Come
by Queen of Smoke and Mirrors
Summary: The land of Hogwarts is happy, healthy and free, under the benevolent rule of King Albus Dumbledore. But if that's true, why is baseborn peasant Hermione Granger acting as a spymistress to the rebellious House of Malfoy? Dramione Medieval-esque AU, featuring a Hermione occasionally without scruples and a Draco regularly without morals.
1. Hogwarts: A History

**Welcome, old readers and new, to my latest story! As always, please review to let me know what you think. WARNING: There will most likely be violence and sexual situations later down the line, and the main characters may do things which you would consider morally deviant. This is your only warning - if that isn't your cup of tea, exit now.**

 **For the one and only .nerd, who's been there since the beginning.**

 **This is a bit boring, but it's background - won't happen every chapter.**

* * *

 **Hogwarts: A History**

The great and noble land of Hogwarts was founded over a thousand years by the four powerful conquerors: Godric Gryffindor, Rowena Ravenclaw, Helga Hufflepuff, and Salazar Slytherin. They divided the land into four counties so that each could rule over one, and in the centre of Hogwarts they founded the capital city of Hogsmeade, that there might be some neutral place for them to convene.

Many years passed. The four counties had dukes set up over to them, who grew in might and stature. The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, arrogant and wealthy, were Dukes of Slytherin; the House of Lovegood, reputed to be as mad and clever as foxes, were Dukes of Ravenclaw; the proud hardworking House of Abbott ruled Hufflepuff, and last were the House of Weasley, who ruled the largest county of Gryffindor, but bore so many children that their coffers were quite depleted.

And then was the House of Malfoy. Ruthless they were, and famed for their beauty. Originally an average lord whose lands lay within the county of Slytherin, the tenth Earl Malfoy (a certain Nicholas Malfoy) crowned himself King of All Hogwarts and placed the Sorting Hat upon his head to seal his claim. Thus the Royal House of Malfoy ruled Hogwarts for many years, with the Sorting Hat being passed from father to son.

But then came Cygnus III Black, Duke of Slytherin. He overthrew and killed King Abraxas VIII, demoting the latter's son back to the status of mere Earl Malfoy, and set himself up as King – only to be overthrown in turn by one Tom Riddle.

Ah, Tom Riddle. An anomaly indeed. His mother might have been a pureblood, daughter of the poverty-stricken aristocratic House of Gaunt, but his father was a mere middle-class merchant of the undistinguished Riddle family. From these humble beginnings grew Tom Riddle. His desire to ensconce himself amongst his betters was such that he invented himself a title – that of Lord Voldemort – and raised an army which crushed the one raised by King Cygnus Black. Voldemort the Usurper crowned himself Dark Lord of Hogwarts (though it is said the Sorting Hat denounced him) and proceeded to rule the land.

Abraxas Malfoy, the fourteenth Earl Malfoy, had had wit enough to foresee Lord Voldemort's triumph, and had allied himself with him; in this way the Royal House of Malfoy was restored to some of their former glory, being richly rewarded for their loyalty. From thence comes their reputation for cunning and ambition. But they have never forgotten that once they were kings, and ever do they seek to wear the Sorting Hat once more.

When King Cygnus was defeated, his original title of Duke of Slytherin passed to his last living male relative, a nephew named Sirius Black. The nephew died without spouse or heirs, and the title reverted to his female cousin Princess Bellatrix, King Cygnus' daughter. She is known for her caprices; she denied the title, and allowed its passage to her younger sister Princess Narcissa, who now holds the title Duchess of Slytherin in her own right – the first female to do so since its creation. Her husband, by right of his wife, is entitled to be addressed as Duke of Slytherin also.

Her husband is not without title himself. He is Lucius Malfoy, fifteenth Earl Malfoy, son of Lord Voldemort's greatest ally. Thusly are the House of Black and the House of Malfoy united, both with royal blood in their veins, and ever have they continued the struggle of their ancestors: Lucius Malfoy has sworn that he will one day wear the Sorting Hat as his ancestors wore it, and that his lady wife will be Queen of Hogwarts the way her father was King.

But the Dark Lord himself was not all-powerful. There came to be a malcontent, Albus Dumbledore by name, born in the county of Gryffindor in the village of Godric's Hollow; he dedicated his life to destroying the Dark Lord, and finally accomplished this feat in a duel. The Sorting Hat recognised him as its master. Though he demurred thrice, he was finally crowned King Albus of the barely-aristocratic House of Dumbledore, and it is he who rules now. He insists upon being referred to as _His Serene Highness_ , instead of the greater address of _His Royal Highness_ , to indicate his modesty.

But King Albus did not win by himself. A great help to him was the young Harry Potter, second Viscount Potter, also hailing from Godric's Hollow. Since the King has no heirs, he has proclaimed that Lord Potter will succeed him.

Rebellions stirred by the House of Malfoy over the centuries since they lost the Sorting Hat have not been uncommon. They are closely watched by the King, and a Royal Decree bars the dukedom of Slytherin from maintaining its own private army, as the other dukedoms too.

Such is the current state of Hogwarts…

* * *

 ** _Geography of Hogwarts_**

Hogsmeade, in the very centre of Hogwarts, is neutral; it was constructed in the shape of a square, and a different dukedom spreads out from its city walls in each of the four directions.

The county of Slytherin holds the west of Hogwarts. Its capital city is Wiltshire, with the Duke and Duchess holding court there at Malfoy Manor. Being a scion of formerly royal houses, their son Draco Malfoy is allowed the title of Prince. Slytherin, though small, is an extremely wealthy dukedom.

The county of Gryffindor rules the east. The current duke is Arthur Weasley, who has seven children with his duchess Lady Molly Prewitt, daughter of the fifth Earl of Gideon. The capital city of Gryffindor is Ottery St. Catchpole; the House of Weasley's family seat is known (rather uncouthly) as the Burrow.

The county of Ravenclaw is at the north of Hogwarts. The duke, Xenophilius Lovegood, has no offspring save his daughter Lady Luna, as he has refused to remarry since the duchess Pandora (surname unknown) died many years ago. They occupy Lovegood House in the capital city of Quibbler.

The county of Hufflepuff lies to the east. Similar to the lack of a Duchess of Ravenclaw, there is no Duchess of Hufflepuff, as Giffard Abbott is unmarried. It is likely that his niece Hannah Abbott will inherit the title. She is married to Neville Longbottom, eighth Earl of St Mungo, and is therefore titled Countess of St Mungo. They all reside in the Leaky Cauldron, which is in the capital city of Diagonalley.

\- From _Hogwarts: A History_ , 2586th edition, by the Honourable Miss Bathilda Bagshot


	2. Prologue: In All the Wrong Places

**If Draco Malfoy had been a Muggle, I feel like Eton College is just the place he would have gone to.**

* * *

 **Prologue: In All the Wrong Places**

Hermione Granger needed money.

This was nothing new; in all her sixteen years of life, she had frequently been in need of money, and only rarely had the gods delivered. She'd tried everything. She'd been a seamstress, a Thestral-keeper, a scullery maid, a washerwoman. In a moment of sheer desperation two months ago she'd even turned towards prostitution – only to discover that her bushy brown hair, slightly-too-plump figure and unfashionably tanned skin meant her worth was measured in Sickles rather than Galleons.

Naturally, she'd only found this out after her first customer had already rutted inside her. Now that she wasn't a virgin she couldn't even daydream about ever being married to a rich, handsome nobleman.

Not that she ever had. Hermione Granger knew her station in life. She was far too practical for daydreams.

She'd been born in a small village in the county of Gryffindor, the daughter of unmarried peasants Wendell Wilkins and Monica Granger. To add insult to injury, she wasn't just a peasant: she was a bastard one. It seemed that her parents had never quite gotten around to tying the knot before her birth. Now they never could, since they had tragically disappeared quite a few years ago.

Hermione had often wondered irritably why her mother hadn't insisted on keeping her legs closed until Wendell had proposed. She did love her parents, it was just that _they_ weren't the ones who had been forced to bear the stigma of bastardry in her home village. It was her. Nobody would employ her in case her base blood somehow managed to taint them. She'd finally moved away from the village, wandering through all the counties in turn, looking for a job which either never materialised or never managed to last very long, until she'd ended up where she was right now: in Slytherin county, walking down a street in its capital of Wiltshire.

Hermione Granger still needed money.

She didn't have much left of the food she'd stolen back in Ravenclaw county. Soon it would run out, and she didn't dare steal any here – apparently the laws were strict in Slytherin. It was colder here too, and rainy, the foggy precipitation in the air soaking through her thin cloak. If she didn't starve to death she'd probably freeze at nightfall.

People hurried past her in relative silence. Hermione was in a middle-class part of the city where the inhabitants were all intent upon their business of making as much money as possible, no doubt in the hopes of sidling into the Rich Quarters of the city. She probably stuck out like a sore thumb. Her robes were much-darned and tattered, her cloak obviously shoddy; if she didn't watch out she'd probably be kicked out for loitering by some suspicious official. What to do?

With a sigh Hermione decided to retrace her steps back into the Poor Quarters. She'd rented a room there in some third-rate inn called the Hog's Head, though she hadn't been stupid enough to leave anything important from her meagre belongings in it.

Perhaps she could find some job sweeping streets. The gods knew she'd tried everything else.

It began to rain. Heavy droplets splashed into the untameable mane of her hair, trickling icily down the back of her neck. Hermione drew her hood up, for all the good that did her, and quickened her pace. The last thing she needed was to catch pneumonia.

It seemed everyone else was as keen as her to be out of the downpour, because soon she found that she was one of the only people out and about. The realisation sent uneasiness skittering down her spine. She entered the Poor Quarters – as signalled by the narrower streets, cracked cobblestones and sky-high piles of rubbish everywhere – and it was with relief that she arrived at the disgusting disembodied pig's head sign of her inn.

Hermione ran into the taproom, settling herself as close to the pathetic fire as possible. She couldn't afford to change out of her wet robes. She only had the two sets, after all, and since the other was slightly less darned, she saved it for job interviews and the like.

The taproom was almost deserted. Apart from the barman, who looked to be well over a hundred, there was a pair of figures with their faces concealed by hoods hunched muttering in a corner. Hermione was unsurprised by the clientele. The Hog's Head was evidently the sort of establishment which was frequented by those thoroughly up to no good, as opposed to being slightly up to no good, like the rest of the Poor Quarters. No wonder she could afford to stay here.

Driven by slightly bored curiosity, she proceeded to do something stupid: she listened.

Most people are aware that, when confronted with something like the Hog's Head, it is better to pretend to be deaf, dumb and blind. This was something which the barman was a master of. It had saved his life many a time. Unfortunately, Hermione was the sort of person who could not resist this manner of situation, and so her head tilted slightly to the side as she rather obviously began to eavesdrop.

The conversation she overheard was to change the rest of her life.

"… the Manor," one of the figures was saying, his voice a masculine rumble. "The duke's well protected, not to mention the fact that he's said to be deadly with the blades. Absolutely no point."

" _He_ might be deadly with the blades, but you can't persuade me the duchess will be," the other figure argued. His voice was slightly higher in tone. "She's –"

"A Black," the man interrupted. "That lot, they have all kinds of tricks up their sleeves, and we don't want to cross Princess Bellatrix. Remember what she did to Selwyn when she discovered what he'd been doing to the Treasury?"

The other man shuddered. "Gods, don't remind me. What about the little princeling?"

"You don't know anything, do you? His spoiled little highness is down at Eton, all the way on the coast. That place is better protected than Hogsmeade. Nothing's happening to him _there_."

"Well then, we're back to the original plan, aren't we?"

"You mean the poison in his tea?"

"No, fool! I mean having Macnair shooting him so full of arrows when they go hunting tomorrow that his lordship resembles a pincushion!"

"That's an excellent idea," the man with the deep voice said. His cowled head lifted and swung round. "You think so too, don't you, little whore?"

Hermione gasped and jumped to her feet. "Wha –"

"Because," he continued, rising slowly, "I can't imagine any other reason why you'd be listening so keenly. Can you, Goyle?"

Hermione went weak-kneed with terror, but her formidable brain noted something immediately: she now had a name for one of the faces, and she had another name besides. She wasn't stupid. This sounded exactly like an assassination attempt on Lucius Malfoy, Duke of Slytherin, who would no doubt handsomely reward anyone who alerted him to treachery among his people…

"What do you mean?" she asked quaveringly.

Goyle laughed mockingly. "I love the ones who play innocent, Crabbe, I really do."

They advanced towards her, skirting round the edges of their table. Hermione darted a glance at the barman. No help there – he had his head firmly down, wiping methodically at a glass with a dirty rag.

There was nothing else for it. Hermione put her head down and sprinted from the Hog's Head like a bat out of hell, getting soaked through once again almost instantly with rain from the darkening sky. She spared a moment to regret the loss of her better robes, up in her room.

They'd be on her tail soon. If they had any brains at all they'd know her destination, though she frankly doubted – how stupid were they, that they had so easily given away their names? Perhaps the names were false. It didn't matter right now.

Breathing raggedly through the burning stitch in her side, Hermione ran for Malfoy Manor.

* * *

Unsurprisingly, the servant who opened a back door of the manor at her banging looked at her like something he had picked off his shoe.

"No beggars," he said. "Sorry."

He tried to shut the heavy wooden door, but Hermione determinedly stuck her foot into the gap.

"I'm not a beggar," she said. The words came out as heavy pants. Gods, but she was unfit. Why was it that no matter how little food she had, she never seemed to get thinner?

"I have important information for the Duke and Duchess," she said. "You need to let me in."

"I don't have to do any such thing!" he snapped. "Be gone with you, before I have you arrested!"

He leaned on the door. Tears came to Hermione's eyes at the pressure being exerted on her foot, but she held firm.

"Look. There is a plot to assassinate His Lordship at the hunting tomorrow. If you do not let me in, terrible things will happen. Do you understand?"

She'd caught his attention with that, she could see. Grudgingly he opened the door wider.

"You can tell the steward," he said. "He'll decide what's to be done."

Relief bubbled inside Hermione as she ducked inside the Manor. It seemed the door she'd found to knock frantically on belonged to the kitchens; her senses were instantly assaulted by the smell of roasting beef, making her mouth salivate. She swallowed with difficulty and followed the servant through the clouds of steam.

They emerged into a narrow back passageway. "Wait here," he ordered. "I'll fetch Sir Dobby."

Hermione did so. Even in this unimportant part of the servants' area, the floor was made of smooth stone, the walls draped with silken hangings. She barely had time to marvel at the Slytherins' wealth before the servant was back. Behind him trailed what she thought at first was a child; upon closer inspection it turned out to be a man, but one so short that he barely came up to her shoulder, and she herself was no giantess.

"You can return to your duties now, Bulstrode," the steward ordered.

The servant bowed and retired.

"What is your name?" he asked, when it was merely the two of them in the passage.

Hermione's fingers twisted in her robe. "Hermione Granger, sir. A Gryffindor by birth."

"I see," the steward said. She noticed that his eyes were rather remarkable, huge and palely green. "Your parents?"

"Wendell Wilkins and Monica Granger, sir. Both thought dead."

His swift look let her know that he had noted the fact that she bore her mother's surname, a sure indication of her bastardry, but all he said was, "And what do you have to tell me, Miss Granger?"

She recounted the entire conversation she had heard in the Hog's Head. Sir Dobby's indrawn breath when he heard the names _Crabbe_ , _Goyle_ and _Macnair_ let her know what she needed to: that her information was useful. She allowed herself to relax slightly.

"An interesting story," he said. "If it is true, His Lordship and Her Ladyship will certainly need to hear it."

"Every word of it is gold," she promised. He gave her an enigmatic look.

"I shall let the duke and duchess decide. Come with me."

He turned and set off without looking to see if she was following. Her heart ponding, Hermione kept close on his heels.

He led her through the passageways of Malfoy Manor. Hermione saw how the furnishings became more opulent as they passed away from the servants' areas, how jewelled tapestries appeared on the walls and the floor turned from unremarkable stone to the dark gloss of expensive wood. Finally he stopped before a door and knocked.

"Who is it?" A light, feminine voice called.

"Sir Dobby, Your Ladyship," he said. "I believe I have something of great import for you."

"Come in then," the voice replied.

The knowledge that she was about to face the great duke and duchess of the realm, the powerful royal figures whose stories she had read in history books at her village school, caught up with Hermione abruptly, and she fought to remain steady as she followed Dobby inside the room with her head bowed respectfully. She, Hermione Granger, was about to meet the Duke and Duchess of Slytherin! She was about to meet _royalty_!

Mentally preparing herself for the awe and reverence their presences would induce in her, Hermione lifted her head. She blinked.

The Duke and Duchess of Slytherin were naked.

Lucius Malfoy was even more handsome than the stories had made him out to be; his hair fell to halfway down his back in a shining sheet of white-gold, somehow not detracting in the slightest from the arrogant, sharply masculine planes of his face. Powerful muscles rippled in his bare torso as he sat up in the immense four-poster bed. Lounging beside him, Narcissa Black was no less beautiful, her own hair a slightly darker shade of blonde as it spread out over the headboard. The only item she wore was an immense emerald collar that only drew attention to her full, milky-white breasts.

Hermione tried not to feel faint. She kept her eyes determinedly fixed on Lucius Malfoy's face as he demanded, "Who on earth is this?"

"Hermione Granger, Your Lordship," Dobby said. "She has overheard a plot regarding you." He flicked her a glance. Catching it, she began her story.

"Oh, I knew he was not to be trusted!" Narcissa cried when Macnair's name was mentioned. She turned to her husband. "Didn't I tell you so?"

"So you did, my beauty," Lucius said. His wintry-grey eyes were fixed on Hermione, who was trying not to notice as he simultaneously toyed with one of his wife's pink nipples. "Go on, girl."

Hermione concluded her tale with the names of Crabbe and Goyle and looked at the couple expectantly. Narcissa sighed.

"If you are telling the truth," she said, "I will see to it that you do not regret it. Until tomorrow when we can ascertain this for sure, you will be an honoured guest."

"Of course, Your Ladyship," Hermione said. 'Guest', she knew, translated to 'prisoner', so that if it was discovered that she was lying it would be easy for them to make her wish she had never been born, but she had nothing to fear; she really was telling the truth.

She watched in astonishment as Lucius leaned over to kiss Narcissa as though they neither had an audience nor had been told of his planned assassination.

"Come," Sir Dobby muttered. They backed out of the room, although Hermione doubted that the ducal couple had noticed, they were so caught up in each other. She remembered that they had a son – some spoiled little boy, she seemed to recall – and pitied him, if he regularly had to contend with his overly-amorous parents.

"That went very well indeed," Dobby said. "Now, Miss Granger, allow me to show to your room."

"It did," Hermione agreed, smiling.

Her life, she decided, had just taken an unexpected turn for the better.

* * *

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**


	3. Chapter One: The Prodigal Son

**Chapter One: The Prodigal Son**

 ** _Two years later_**

"Have you heard?" Alecto Carrow said eagerly. "The Prince is returning!"

Hermione did not look up. She sat at the immense desk in her room, absorbed in a scroll of parchment one of her many contacts had sent her, frowning slightly. Reports came in for her all the time from all over Hogwarts, and Hermione Granger was now a very busy woman indeed.

Her rise to success had been meteoric. The Malfoys had confirmed she was telling the truth about the assassination plot, of course. Crabbe, Goyle and Macnair had been rounded up immediately and placed in the dungeons. Hermione didn't know precisely what had happened next, but she _did_ know that the duchess's sister Princess Bellatrix had arrived and spent quite a bit of time alone with the prisoners. Their screams had been audible throughout the Manor.

Hermione, vindicated, had been given leave to ask one request of the Slytherins. She'd used her request wisely: she'd asked them for a job.

Considering her social status, she had expected to be set to work in the kitchens, or the Thestral stables, but she'd underestimated her employers; Narcissa and Lucius Malfoy had recognised her intellect and put it to good use by appointing her as one of their legion of spies. It was her job to be their eyes and ears in the world and report anything she encountered back. She'd fulfilled this admirably, so much so that when their previous spymaster Bartemius Crouch had come to a rather unfortunate end, Hermione had been given his place.

"Hermione!" Alecto said indignantly. "Are you listening to me?"

"Of course," Hermione said soothingly. Alecto Carrow was a good source of gossip. "What were you saying again?"

The older woman scowled and crossed her arms over her chest. "I _said_ , Prince Draco is returning!"

"I know," Hermione said. It was her bloody job to know. "I take it you're excited?"

"Along with every other red-blooded woman in this place," Alecto said, smirking. "Gods, that boy…" She sighed happily. "Just looking at him makes me wet. You know?"

Hermione didn't. She'd never personally met Lucius and Narcissa's only offspring, and if the rumours were anything to go by, she didn't particularly want to. The young Prince Draco – he was nearly a full year younger than she was – was famed for exploits involving women and wine, like most typical pureblood males of that age. He'd repeatedly been found drunk with girls in his room at Eton. Any other boy would have been instantly expelled for such misdemeanours, but Lucius was on the board of governors, so naturally he'd received the lightest of wrist-slaps.

Narcissa talked about Draco incessantly as well. It was clear that he was outrageously babied by his doting mother and affectionately indulged by his proud father; Hermione was rather jealous. Even before they'd disappeared her own parents had been the strict kind. Surprising really, when you considered that they'd had her out of wedlock.

"He's finally finished his schooling," Alecto said, "and he's coming back home to be married. You have _no idea_ how much every woman in the Manor's looking forward to it. I wish I knew when he was returning…"

Hermione recognised a hint when she heard it.

"In a few hours," she said. Her eyes rolled. "Now please, for the love of the gods, will you get out and let me finish reading this in peace?"

"I heard that Prince Draco had an orgy once with the Travers sisters _and_ Druella Burke _at the same time_ ," Alecto said thoughtfully. "They're all blonde. Do you think he has a particular thing for blondes? Should I dye my hair?"

Hermione gritted her teeth. Dammit, this was an important report she was trying to read here. "Feel free to do so. Also feel free to exit my room right now. Are we clear?"

" _Fine_ ," Alecto pouted as she sidled out. "You really shouldn't be so mean to me. Otherwise I won't ask the prince to include you as well when he invites me to fuck him. I was going to, you know."

"I think I'll manage to live without having had a threesome involving you and Draco Malfoy," Hermione muttered dryly.

Her room now blessedly empty, she returned her attention to the report. It had been sent from the Three Broomsticks, a famously exclusive hotel in the Hogwarts capital of Hogsmeade. The owner, Rosmerta, was secretly loyal to Slytherin, and regularly passed on useful titbits about King Albus Dumbledore or Harry Potter, Viscount Potter.

It had not taken much to turn Hermione against her king. After all, she did not know him: he had never offered her a job or a roof over her head, and had never reformed the country's laws to enable her to procure either of those things easily. Additionally, as the Duke and Duchess had pointed out to her, the Dumbledore family was barely worthy of aristocracy, while the houses of Black and Malfoy had previously worn the Sorting Hat. They were the obvious choice of leader.

The fact that she'd been promised a suitable role in their future court had played no small part in her decision, of course.

Hermione's coffee-brown eyes narrowed as she scanned the parchment. Rosmerta's news was… interesting.

 _The King has decided that, now that his heir has finished his schooling, he must have a wife. To that end, he will be holding a Yule Ball in three days' time, to show off all the daughters of the aristocracy so that Potter can choose a pureblood wife. Gossip says that he currently favours Lady Ginevra Weasley, but this changes almost daily – yesterday he was seen in the company of Miss Cho Chang, and last week he was being hounded by the Honourable Miss Romilda Vane._

A Yule Ball? Those hadn't been held in Hogwarts for quite some time. It was traditional for pureblood families with sons to hold bride-hunting balls, of course, but a genuine Yule Ball was for the son of the monarch, and consequently there hadn't been one since Lucius's grandfather King Abraxas VIII.

A Yule Ball meant hundreds of people. It meant gossip being exchanged and secrets being made, transmuting into the lifeblood of any spy worth her salt.

But this was too important a chance to let one of her thousand lackeys go. Hermione was going to be at the Yule Ball herself.

Done with the report, she threw it into the fireplace, where a fire burned day and night regardless of the weather outside. She watched it carefully to ensure that only ash remained. Many a spy had been discovered by failing to dispose of their correspondence appropriately. When that had happened to one of Hermione's own spies, resulting in his capture by Hufflepuff, she'd dispatched him herself for his sheer idiocy.

Hermione did not like idiots.

Unfortunately, there was every chance that she'd have to meet one soon in the person of Prince Draco Malfoy, returning heir to the dukedom and – if all went well – one-day heir to the throne.

She did not usually tend to make pre-emptive judgements about people; it was terribly rude, not to mention potentially fatal for a spy. (Hermione took spying very seriously). But in this situation, she'd been inundated with so much gossip about him – his godly looks, his innumerable feminine conquests, his propensity for drinking and spending money like it was going out of fashion – that she felt justified in deciding he was not somebody she wanted to get to know.

She groaned and crossed over to her bed. As if it was her choice. Narcissa had already insisted that she wanted her chief of spies to meet her son, because after all, she would be _his_ chief of spies someday. Hermione shuddered at the thought.

She still had a few hours left before the prodigal son's return. It was time to snatch some sleep.

* * *

Hermione was awoken by a fanfare of trumpets.

She leapt out of bed instantly, knowing that the time had come. Curiosity drove her towards her window. It was forward-facing, and by peering out, she could see a huge black carriage drawn by skeletal Thestrals slowly trundling up the wide marble path. The Black and Malfoy coats-of-arms were painted on the door.

It seemed that Prince Draco Malfoy had returned.

The carriage stopped almost directly under her, several hundred feet down. Hermione leaned out a little further to optimise her view. The trumpets had stopped playing; a liveried servant hurried across to the carriage. He opened the door.

Probably it was just her fanciful imagination, but the world seemed to hold its breath as the prince stepped out.

Hermione was disappointed. Prince Draco was tall, muscled lithely rather than bulkily, his hair so blond that the sun flamed off it. His skin was pale enough that she would have bet money on it glowing in the dark. The ivory tone was in stark contrast to the unrelieved black of his fine-cut cloak, robes and boots. From here she couldn't see his face, but the way he began to walk inside the castle suggested casual arrogance, a slinky high-handedness that would doubtless infuriate at some point down the line.

Yes, she was disappointed. Why was it that – for once – the rumours about his looks had turned out to be _true?_ Rumours were never true!

She wriggled into a set of moderately fancy dress robes. She didn't want to look like she was trying too hard, but there was no need to come down looking like the poor peasant she'd once been. A quick brush of her hair made it as non-bushy as it would ever be.

Then Hermione waited. She would be summoned when the time was right.

The time became right a scant half an hour later; there was a tentative knock on the door, and her barked "Come in!" revealed a blushing young maid.

"Yes?" Hermione said.

"Her Ladyship's askin' for your kind presence in the Green Room, ma'am," the girl said, unable to meet Hermione's eyes. "The – the p-p-prince D-Draco –"

"You may leave," she snapped.

Looking as though she were biting back a giggle, the housemaid fled. Hermione began to be worried. It seemed that his effect upon women had not been exaggerated either, if the stuttering and blushing was commonplace. Really, it was ridiculous!

She brushed herself down once last time and proceeded to one of Malfoy Manor's many drawing rooms. Inside, she could hear Narcissa's girlish laughter, along with an unfamiliar, deeper voice. She gathered her self-confidence around her and knocked.

Hermione advanced into the room. The Green Room was, unsurprisingly, green; hung in every shade of it, from emerald to jade to grass. Narcissa sat in Lucius's lap in a chartreuse armchair. There was a figure sitting straight-backed in the sofa beside them whom she carefully avoided looking at.

"At your service, Your Lordship, Your Ladyship," she said crisply.

"Hermione!" Narcissa said brightly. "There's someone I'd like you to meet. Draco, darling," she turned to the sofa, "this is Hermione Granger, my spymistress."

Left with no other choice, Hermione mentally prepared herself for otherworldly beauty and dropped a curtsey. "At your service, my lord."

She saw him as she straightened. Draco Malfoy's face was not, as she had rather expected, a younger copy of his father's. He had Lucius's gunmetal-grey eyes, yes, but the stunningly fine bone structure could have come from either of his parents, and his full pink lips were neither as cruel as his father's nor as pouty as his mother's. Instead they looked rather sulky. Though when he pursed them like that, yes, she could see how they had hints of ruthlessness which would become more evident as he got older –

Hermione realised with horror that, despite all her mental preparation, she was still staring. The duke and duchess looked amused. Draco himself seemed fairly bored. He must be used to it, she thought resentfully. Living around people who looked like the Malfoys was going to give her a complex.

"Pleasure to meet you, Miss Granger," he said. His eyes dipped down her body, lingering at the pronounced curve of her hips. Hermione fought a glare. She knew her hips were horrendously wide, but did he have to make it so obvious? And did his gaze have to feel like it was leaving a trail of fire across her skin?

She pulled herself together and very firmly faced her employers. "I have news, Your Ladyship."

"Do tell," Narcissa said.

Hermione thought she could still feel him staring. Or rather, the truth probably was that her _subconscious_ actually _wanted_ him to be staring; _she_ didn't particularly want to be attracted to him, but since it felt like a bloody biological imperative to be attracted to him right now, her subconscious must be sending her these weird little signals that made it feel like he was possibly undressing her with his eyes from behind her. The thought made her hot.

She resolved to give her subconscious a stern talking-to and tried again.

"Um, yes. So. I've received a report from Madam Rosmerta, the proprietor of the Three Broomsticks in Hogsmeade, and it seems that the King is planning on holding a Yule Ball for his heir –"

"You have the invitation to that, don't you, son?" Lucius said suddenly.

Hermione was forced to look at him then.

"What? Oh, yeah, I do," Draco said lazily. He _was_ staring at her. She coughed.

"I'm in his year at school," he continued. "Or I was, I suppose, since we've just left. He's a right prick. And insufferably stupid."

"So was his father," Lucius said. "James Potter was a couple of years under me at Eton… didn't know the meaning of self-control."

Draco rolled his eyes. "I'm not sure you do either, Father. Could you _please_ not do that when I'm in the room?"

"So sorry, darling," Narcissa said, batting her husband's hands away from where they'd been slipping inside her bodice. "In any case, you must be exhausted. Off you go!"

With relief, but also a strange disappointment, Hermione hastily backed out of the room.

* * *

 **As always, if you liked it, please spare a second to tell me so in a review. It makes me unbelievably happy... and a happy me is an updating me :)**


	4. Chapter Two: Meet the Mudblood

**My best friend was a little confused by the prologue when reading this, so if anyone else is in that boat, just let me know.**

* * *

 **Chapter Two: Meet the Mudblood**

Hermione had only taken two steps in the direction of her room when she was forestalled.

"Granger! Hey, Granger!"

Unable to ignore a direct summons by her employers' son, she pivoted on one foot to face him. The princeling stood a few inches away, his eyes alight with amusement.

"It would be more appropriate to refer to me as _Miss_ Granger," she corrected stiffly.

"Okay, _Granger_ ," he said. His tone was perfectly agreeable. His expression – she could only describe it as, somehow, simultaneously smug and saintly – was not. Hermione reminded herself of his elevated social status compared to hers and pasted a benevolent smile onto her face.

"Can I help you with something, my lord?"

"Well," he said, smirking in a way that made him even more bloody breath-taking, "I couldn't help but notice how you were looking at me in there. And I'm a good lord. My parents always told me to see to my people's needs. So, why don't you come to my rooms tonight and let me see to _your_ needs?"

Hermione froze. "I beg your pardon, my lord. I don't believe I heard you correctly."

"There's no need to play hard-to-get, I've _said_ I'll fuck you tonight," he said, rolling his eyes. "Though I'm not entirely sure why. That hair of yours looks like a broomstick tail, you know, and as for your teeth –"

Flames zipped through Hermione's bloodstream, but not in the pleasurable way that they had back in the Green Room; her vision blurred, a haze of red descended over her brain, and the next thing she knew her palm was stinging and there was a blazing handprint across Prince Draco Malfoy's aristocratically pointed cheek.

"Shit, woman, was that really necessary?" he said, scowling at her.

Hermione backed away slowly. Her hands sprung to cover her mouth in horror. Gods above, what had she done? She'd just lost her job! No, she'd assaulted the ducal heir – she'd just lost her _head_!

"– really, I'm not sure you're aware of what an honour that is –"

She only vaguely registered that he was still talking. Her mind was too busy running through images of her body relieved of its head and innards, with her head on a spike by Traitor's Gate like they did to criminals. And the snakes… Snakes were found in abundance throughout Slytherin, and an ancient legend said that if every last one were ever to leave Malfoy Manor, the county would fall to its enemies. The snakes were fed on the hearts of criminals; she saw her own heart being carved out of her chest and fed, raw and beating, to a massive poison-green python…

No. She was Hermione Granger, spymistress to the Royal House of Malfoy, and she wouldn't let herself meet as ignoble an end as that. She'd escape. Take a Thestral, get into the Forbidden Forest. But they'd send an Auror after her, and those bastards specialised in catching criminals; she didn't stand a chance.

"Merlin, Granger, are you alright? You look like you're about to throw up. Or faint. If it's the first, mind you stay away – these dragonhide boots cost me a fortune."

She blinked rapidly to refocus her vision. The prince was staring at her with his eyebrows pulled together. If she didn't know better, she'd say he looked _concerned_.

"I'm fine," she said faintly. The sight of the handprint on his cheek was reminding her of the magnitude of her error, so she forced herself to keep her gaze on his eyes instead. Merlin knew those were distracting enough.

She steeled herself for a declaration of his intention to have her thrown in the dungeons. To Hermione's astonishment, it never came; he lounged against the wall and flashed her a grin instead.

"If you get like this when you're angry, Granger, I _cannot_ wait to get you in bed," he said half-admiringly.

It seemed that her arrest was not to be imminent. Hermione found her tongue. "Malfoy, haven't we just established that I'm never getting in your bed?"

She waited to see what his reaction would be to the use of his surname instead of 'my lord'. He only smirked and shrugged. The boy seemed to spend an inordinate amount of time smirking, probably because he knew how handsome he looked when he did it.

"You're a spymistress. Note that the word _mistress_ is in there. Now, I'd like to make it clear that I'm not in the market for a mistress – too much commitment – but it ought to be pointed out that –"

She considered everything she'd heard about him, and blurted out something she knew would change his mind.

"I'm a Mudblood."

He blinked. "What?"

"I said, Malfoy, I'm a Mudblood," she said, enunciating clearly. It was the outcome she had wanted, so she didn't know why her insides were squirming uncomfortably at the expression on his face. "As in, my parents weren't married. Added to that I was born in Gryffindor, a county I'm told you hate because Lord Potter is from it, and my parents were farmers. You see?"

He seemed to shake himself. "I do see. But why does it matter? After all, it's not as if I'm proposing to marry you. Lots of my friends have had encounters with Mudbloods. That's perfectly acceptable."

She was unreasonably incensed at the reminder that she was not good enough, would never be good enough, for anything more than an _encounter_. Not even as a mistress. After all, in some cases mistresses were held on par with wives, and a Mudblood could never be placed into such an exalted position, could she?

"I will not be your paramour, Malfoy, and that is final," Hermione snapped. "Now leave me alone!"

She stormed off, ignoring his look of shock. No doubt he was amazed that anyone had the willpower to resist him. Well, here was a nasty surprise, because she – the brightest spymistress of her age, as Narcissa had laughingly dubbed her – certainly did.

* * *

Hermione tried to avoid Malfoy for the rest of the day. At first it was easy enough; he retreated to his room, to do whatever it was princes did, while she read another series of mostly trivial reports.

Then the gong rang for supper. She descended to the Great Hall, freezing when she saw _him_ sitting at the High Table by his parents. Of course he'd be there. He had been sipping elegantly from a goblet, but he looked up swiftly as though he had sensed her approach through the hubbub, and she was relieved to see that the slap mark had faded.

Hermione paused when she reached the High Table. The general rabble sat on benches at separate tables dotting the Great Hall, but as spymistress she'd worked her way into a coveted seat here. What was this, though? Her seat – normally fairly far from the ducal couple, next to an Auror called Rosier – had suddenly been moved closer, her initials _HJG_ embroidered on the hanging at the back of the chair. Now she was sitting significantly closer to the Duke and Duchess, with Malfoy positioned a little further down on the opposite side. She slid into her seat warily.

"Hermione!" Narcissa greeted. The sweepingly low cut of her gown exposed numerous love-bites her emerald collar failed to hide. "We have visitors."

"Yes, my lady," she replied, picking up her cutlery. Lucius shifted.

"I shall do the honours," he said. "Blaise, Lady Pansy, this is Hermione Granger. Miss Granger, here we have the Honourable Mr Blaise Zabini and Lady Pansy Parkinson."

"A pleasure, Miss Granger," Zabini said. His voice was deep and smooth. Hermione, sitting directly opposite him, ran through her mental files and saw that his mother was a minor aristocrat who had been widowed in suspicious circumstances seven times. Judging from the brilliance of his smile, he had inherited her charm.

Lady Pansy Parkinson, in contrast to her dark-haired and dark-skinned companion, was pale and dishwater-blonde. Hermione's brain informed her that she was the only daughter of Slytherin vassal Perseus Parkinson, fifth Marquess of Parkinson. The girl's smile was cutting.

"Hello, Miss Granger," she said. Hermione smiled back.

"I'm honoured to meet you."

"These are very good friends of Draco's, and they've come to stay for a while," Lucius said. "I believe they'll turn out to be quite helpful to you."

Her eyebrows raised. "Really?"

Lady Pansy laughed. "No need to sound surprised, Miss Granger. Blaise and I can be quite helpful, you know. We're not as useless as we look."

"Oh, I wasn't –" Hermione began to protest.

"Unlike Draco, who's even more useless than he looks," Blaise interrupted.

Despite herself, Hermione joined the two of them in their laughter. It seemed that Malfoy had heard; he had turned his head to face them and was glaring furiously.

As dinner progressed, Hermione did what was expected of her and engaged her dinner companions in conversation.

"So, Lady Pansy, have you visited Malfoy Manor often?"

"Just Pansy will be acceptable," she said. She gave another one of her vicious smiles. Possibly she didn't intend them to look as frightening as they did, because she turned out to be surprisingly friendly, at one point confiding that she and Blaise had known Malfoy since age seven.

"And he was just as much a little git then as he is now," she said affectionately. Hermione smirked at hearing the hopefully-future king described in such terms. "He used to catch flies and tear the wings off – it really was the sweetest thing, would have brought a tear to your eye. And he'd run after the servants with sharpened sticks, especially Dobby. Good old Dobby. He had to put up with a lot from us."

She leaned out to see the steward at his table and waved. Sir Dobby waved back merrily.

Finally supper was concluded, and a servant rang the gong again to dismiss the diners.

"Come," Lucius said. "There is a matter that needs discussion."

Hermione nodded and followed him into a small antechamber off the Great Hall. She was not usually introduced specifically to guests; no doubt she was about to learn exactly how these two would be helpful to her. Malfoy, Narcissa, Pansy and Blaise filed in after her, the room filling up to a slightly uncomfortable level. Malfoy was standing right behind her. She tried to ignore the fact that she could feel his regular exhalations gently waft against her bush of hair.

Hair he'd insulted, the rude little twerp.

"So," Narcissa said, "as we all know, the Yule Ball is being held in three days' time, and it will be a golden opportunity for reconnaissance against the enemy. Real reconnaissance, not whatever is gleaned from dusty corners and half-heard gossip. Naturally, Draco, Pansy and Blaise all have invitations. It is imperative that Hermione be there, so she will be travelling in the guise of Pansy's lady's maid."

Hermione and Pansy exchanged lightning-fast glances. The other girl's expression was speculative.

"So that's why you made me leave Avery behind," she said. Then she gave Hermione a critical look. "Are you even any good at doing hair?"

"Of course she isn't," Malfoy said. "Have you seen hers?"

"Draco!" Narcissa said, sounding shocked. "Don't be so rude. Though he is right, Hermione. Pansy will need to look presentable at the Ball."

Hermione gritted her teeth. "I shall endeavour to do my best, Your Ladyship."

"Excellent," Narcissa said. "The four of you will set out early tomorrow morning, so make sure you get a good night's sleep. _I_ won't be needing it, but I'll still be going to bed now, along with my lovely husband. Draco, dear, remember to knock before you open our bedroom door. We don't want a repeat of the Feather Incident, do we?"

While Malfoy made a retching sound, she swept out of the antechamber, an amused-looking Lucius following.

"Your parents are sex maniacs," Blaise said. He sounded as though he were trying to bite back laughter.

"I know," Malfoy said sulkily. "It's bloody disgusting, is what it is."

"I think it's sweet," Pansy said. "What about you, Hermione?"

"I think that since Malfoy's apparently a sex maniac too, I don't see that he should be complaining," she said.

There was a moment of shocked silence, then Pansy and Blaise burst into laughter. She felt Malfoy burning a hole into her with his gaze and smirked.

Wait, no. Why on earth was she smirking? That was _his_ signature move. She modified the expression into a smug smile and left for her own bedroom.

And her own, lonely bed.

* * *

 **Thank you to everyone who reviewed! And those who followed without reviewing, I SEE YOU :P  
**

 **I have a Latin exam and Biology mock tomorrow. Reviews would greatly help in getting rid of the depression that this thought brings.**


	5. Chapter Three: The Pilgrims' Passage

**Dedicated to Sam Wallflower and Peach Diva. My exams went quite well, thanks!  
**

 **Okay, I know the summary says medieval, but this really is all over the place - they speak anachronistically, Pansy's reticule is Regency, and blah blah blah. Sorry. I'm normally a stickler for historical accuracy, but I'm having so much fun writing this!**

* * *

 **Chapter Three: The Pilgrims' Passage**

Hermione was awoken at the crack of dawn by a jab to her shoulder.

"Ow!" she gasped, sitting up. Her hand automatically scrabbled under her pillow for the knife she kept there, but then she recognised her attacker and stopped.

"Pansy?"

Lady Pansy Parkinson was standing by her headboard, arms crossed across her chest, foot tapping impatiently.

"Who else?" she said. "Get up, we have loads to do and not much time to do it in."

"But we leave for Hogsmeade at nine of the clock and the gong hasn't even been rung for reveille yet," Hermione said in confusion. The early-morning sunlight was bright enough that she could see Pansy was fully dressed.

"We're not going to Hogsmeade yet," Pansy said irritably. "Merlin, Hermione, would you get up already? We need to pack your trunk."

"I packed it last night," she protested as she swung her legs out of bed.

"Yeah, with the sort of things a washerwoman might wear. And Lady Pansy Parkinson's lady's maid does _not_ dress like a washerwoman. My gods, is your hair always like that?"

Hermione caught sight of herself in the mirror and winced. Since she'd just woken up, the curls were sticking straight out like a lion's mane, and she thought she could see a white drool-line at the corner of mouth.

"Not always," she said defensively. "Here, I'll brush it. See?"

She grabbed her hairbrush from the dressing table and drew it viciously through her tangles. Pansy watched in awe. By the end of it, massive balls of hair were stuck in the bristles and Hermione felt as though she'd lost half her curls, but she looked slightly more presentable than before.

"Get dressed and meet me in the Great Hall," Pansy said. "In no less than five minutes. Okay?"

She left with a slam of the door.

Hermione obeyed her instructions and strode into the Great Hall, feeling significantly more awake after she'd splashed her face with cold water, in four minutes and forty-nine seconds. It was mostly deserted; but to her surprise, she found a heavy-eyed Blaise Zabini and Draco Malfoy sitting at the High Table opposite Pansy.

"Finally," Pansy said as Hermione slid in next to her. "You were cutting it close. Here, eat this." She thrust a bowl of porridge at her.

Her puzzlement mounting, Hermione sprinkled brown sugar onto it and tucked in. Blaise and Malfoy were yawning into their own bowls of porridge. Neither of them had looked up at her entrance.

"What's going on?" Hermione said after a few moments of silence.

"We're going shopping," Pansy said. "I refuse to have my lady's maid dress like you do."

"She's not really your lady's maid," Blaise pointed out. He shot Hermione an exhausted smile. "Morning."

"Nobody else knows that," Pansy retorted. "And why are you two so tired?"

"We snuck into Father's stock of Firewhiskey," Malfoy muttered.

Hermione stared. "Are you _stupid?_ You knew we were leaving on a trip this morning, and you went and _got drunk?"_

"It's tradition," he said, looking up to glare at her. His eyes were slightly red-rimmed. "Whenever Blaise comes over, out comes the Firewhiskey. Besides, I – hang on, why am I explaining myself to you, anyway? You're the help!"

"I will be, yes," she agreed. "I'll be a massive help in putting that Sorting Hat on your head. Though for the life of me, I can't think of a worse candidate for future ruler!"

"I can. You. Gods, you'd be a _horrible_ Queen," he said snappishly. "All high-and-mighty and by-the-book and goody-two-shoes and holier-than-thou –"

Hardly knowing she was doing it, Hermione leaned over the table, closer to him. He leaned in as well to meet her halfway. She was so near that she could see flecks of green in the greyness of his furious eyes.

Merlin, but this boy could make her livid like no-one else.

"I'd still be better than you!" she hissed. "You'd be disrespectful, philandering, corrupt, wine-sodden, idiotic –"

Pansy banged on the table. "THAT IS ENOUGH!"

Hermione and Malfoy jumped away from each other as though they'd been slapped. The air was crackling with tension; Blaise's expression was avid, as though he was a spectator at a Quidditch match. Pansy looked annoyed. It was difficult to tell, though, because she generally always looked to be some degree of irritated.

"Shut up, both of you," she said more quietly. "I don't know why you don't seem to be able to get along –"

"Really, Panse?" Blaise cut in. "Someone as worldly as you like to pretend you are? You can't tell why Draco and Hermione are burning up the air around them?"

She gave him a disdainful look. "A gentleman never interrupts a lady, Zabini."

"Yeah," he said. A wolfish grin appeared on his face. "But I'm no gentleman, and you're no lady."

To Hermione's surprise, a faint blush stole across Pansy's cheeks. So it was like that, was it? She glanced at Malfoy to see if he had noticed. He rolled his eyes at her and went back to spooning porridge gingerly into his mouth.

"Anyway," Pansy said loudly as Blaise smirked to himself, "we need to go shopping. That's why I've woken you all up early."

"Why do Blaise and I need to go?" Malfoy whined. "Why can't it be just you and Hermione? Shopping is for girls."

"So is spending hours in front of the mirror to admire your lovely blond hair," Hermione said. "Doesn't stop you."

"You've just met me, you don't know how much time I spend on my hair. And for your information it's _hardly any_ ," he objected, a little too quickly for belief.

"Bollocks," Hermione scoffed. "Nobody's hair is that good without –"

She stopped abruptly, realising precisely what she was saying. Malfoy pounced.

"Go on, Granger. You think my hair's good, do you? And how was it I heard you describe it a few seconds ago? Ah, yes, 'lovely blond'. Well, Granger, you could have spent all of last night running your hands through it, if you weren't a frigid virgin who –"

"Not a virgin," Hermione growled. She wondered if smoke was coming out of her ears, because her head certainly felt as though it was about to explode.

His jaw dropped in mock amazement. "You mean there was actually someone who found you attractive enough to bed you?"

" _You_ found me attractive enough to offer an invitation to your bed," she fired back. "Maybe I'd even have taken you up on it, if you weren't such a condescending berk."

This time the jaw-drop was real. "I – you –" he spluttered.

Hermione smiled victoriously at him and turned back to her porridge. Suddenly remembering that there were other people at the table, she looked up. Blaise and Pansy were gawping.

"Shut your mouth, Blaise, I can see the food in it," she said, wrinkling her nose. He snapped it closed with an audible clack and continued chewing. Pansy regarded her for a few more seconds, then looked at Malfoy. He was grinding his teeth together and looking thunderous.

"Change of plans," Pansy said. "I see what you mean, Blaise. It'll just be us girls going shopping, because I fear for the innocence of my eyes if Draco comes along."

"You and innocent in the same sentence. Hah, good one," Blaise chortled. Pansy aimed a reproving glance at him.

* * *

"I don't have the money for this," Hermione moaned as Pansy made her try on yet another set of outrageously expensive robes.

"Rubbish. You're a spymistress. You probably make more than half the castle put together," Pansy said. "Besides, this one's only three hundred Galleons! Why, that's not even as much as a good pair of dancing slippers!"

"I don't own one of those either," Hermione griped.

She and Pansy had been shopping for about an hour now, and she had to admit that she was having fun. With typical pureblood arrogance Pansy had awoken the proprietor of Twilfitt & Tattings so Hermione could try on every overpriced robe they had. So far she'd agreed to buy three; Pansy apparently wanted her to buy up half the shop.

"Oh, that's lovely," Pansy said fervently as Hermione emerged from the changing rooms in a periwinkle-blue set. "You're definitely getting that. And the red, and the green. It's Draco's favourite colour," she added slyly.

Hermione fixed her with a flat stare. "Why would I care?"

"Why wouldn't you?" she said, blinking faux-innocently.

Hermione decided to fight fire with fire. "Well then, is pink _Blaise's_ favourite colour? Because you've worn nothing else since I've met you."

"What? Well, why on earth would I care?" Pansy choked out.

"Exactly," she said smugly.

Momentarily admitting defeat, Pansy made a tactical retreat from the field of battle. "We'll take these four," she said to the yawning assistant. "Pack it up quick, my good man. I have places to be."

"Certainly, my lady," he said. Hermione shimmied back into her normal robes with slight regret. Those blue dress robes had been quite pretty. She forked over a horrifying number of Galleons, received a wrapped parcel in exchange, and trailed after Pansy as they walked back through the Rich Quarters to Malfoy Manor, which had just begun to stir as they returned.

Pansy stopped before they had quite arrived. "So," she said, trying for casualness. "What makes you think I'd wear any colour for Blaise?"

Hermione hid her smirk. She'd watched the other girl shift all the way up here; it had only been a matter of time before the question was broached.

"I'm a spymistress, Pansy," she said amusedly. "I can tell these things. And I can tell you that you have rather a _tendre_ for Mr Zabini."

"He doesn't like me back," Pansy muttered.

Hermione raised her eyebrows. "No? That's not the impression I got this morning."

"Oh, that? That was just flirting. He's like that with everyone. He doesn't like me as anything more than a sister, which is also the way Draco likes me."

"Well, you know him better than I do," Hermione said in placatory tones. "If you say he doesn't like, he doesn't like you."

Pansy rounded on her. "When we go to the Yule Ball. Can you… watch him, maybe? See how he acts with me, with other girls? If there's even the slightest hope he feels anything for me, then I need to act. Because Parkinsons get what they want. But if I'm wasting my time on him then you need to need to let me know, so I can move on. Because Parkinsons don't _pine_."

"Of course I can," Hermione said, quite touched. "It's no problem."

"Thank you," she said fervently.

* * *

The carriage was bigger than most peasants' dwellings. However, it transpired, this was not big enough to satisfactorily contain all four of them.

"No more!" Hermione roared when Blaise and Malfoy's game of Exploding Snap sent her into a coughing fit from all the smoke. "I'm going to choke to death!"

"That's hardly incentive to stop," Malfoy said to Blaise out of the corner of his mouth.

Hermione, who had been in the carriage for three hours and was beginning to feel slightly frazzled, let out a shriek and tried to lunge at him. Fortunately Pansy was sitting beside her and managed to restrain her.

"There, there," she said soothingly. "Draco, honestly, how immature can you get? You're acting like you're five!"

"Blame Granger. She seems to bring it out in me," he said. Hermione thought that her own sense of claustrophobia was being exacerbated by seeing him; he was sprawled opposite her across the carriage seat, supremely relaxed, a position which somehow irked her greatly. He ought to be sharing in her discomfort. Snarling, she closed her eyes to try and alleviate the sick churning of her stomach.

He was wearing those black dragonhide boots he'd been so concerned about. If she did throw up she was definitely going to do it on him.

The Exploding Snap game was put to the vote. Blaise defected, and so Malfoy was overruled: Pansy folded the cards away into her reticule. Glaring at his friend with mutters of 'traitor', Malfoy curled up and apparently went straight to sleep. Of course he could, Hermione thought sourly. She noticed that he looked rather like a large cat like this – one of those white tiger things she'd once seen in a travelling circus, its pelt soft and golden…

Against all odds, she managed to drift into sleep.

* * *

Hermione had never been to Hogsmeade, let alone the Tower, which was the name of the castle in which the King and Lord Potter resided. She stared in fascination out of the window as the carriage trundled majestically up to the front doors. Everywhere she looked were footmen and porters arranged around other carriages. Banners and coat-of-arms flew in all directions.

"Stop gawking, Granger. You'll embarrass me," Malfoy said. His voice was rather like a mosquito whining in Hermione's ear; she ignored him.

Eventually they were forced to get out, as it was their turn for the footmen to carry off the trunks. While this was happening she committed her surroundings to memory. She already a blueprint of the Tower, of course, under the false bottom of her trunk, but nothing compared to seeing it in person; it rose dark and stately against the sky, so tall that the top was wreathed in clouds. She wondered if anyone had ever fallen from it.

Her gaze went to the carriage which had been unpacked before hers. The coat-of-arms on its door bore a ducal coronet, and by straining her eyes she thought she could make out a roaring red and gold lion. The House of Weasley, then. Gryffindor had arrived. Her suspicions were confirmed when a tall, lanky young man with flaming hair appeared from around the carriage and walked up the castle steps.

"My lords, my lady, it is my pleasure to show you to your rooms," a servant droned. "As for you, the servant's quarters are down five floors and –"

Hermione was startled. In her new dress robes she looked no better or worse than Pansy; how had he been able to tell?

"She's my lady's maid. She will be with me," Pansy said haughtily.

The servant nodded. "Of course, my lady. Follow me."

Trying to hide her provincial awe – she doubted that she was entirely successful, because Malfoy shot her a sarcastic look as they climbed the steps – Hermione entered the Tower.

* * *

 **I updated super quickly. I think that deserves a review. Non? :)  
**


	6. Chapter Four: All Eyes on Me

**I'm so stupid. I have so much revision but I've signed up to do a Dramione prompt for hp mental health fest. WHY?**

* * *

 **Chapter Four: All Eyes On Me**

The bottom expanse of the Tower was taken up by a huge ballroom, which was currently closed to the guests, although Hermione could hear sounds of yelling and hammering from behind the carved oaken doors. Instead the servant led them up a looping spiral staircase. She wondered if the staircase extended all the way up to the top of the Tower, and resolved to find out as soon as possible.

"Here, my lady," the servant said, pausing before a door with the number 92 engraved on it. "These are the accommodations for you and your maid. The password to this particular room is 'Fanged geranium.' My lord, Mr Zabini, if you could follow me…"

He led the boys further down the passageway.

"Well, let's see what the King's hospitality is like," Pansy murmured. "Fanged geranium. Everyone knows he's poor as a church mouse –"

"Lord Potter isn't," Hermione pointed out as Pansy swung the door open.

"Yes, but he can hardly host his own Yule Ball, can –"

She stopped abruptly in the doorway. Hermione pushed her.

"What's wrong? Pansy –"

She, too, froze at the sight that met them. It seemed that King Albus Dumbledore's hospitality was not quite as mean as they might have expected.

The room was several times the size of her one back at Malfoy Manor; her old farmers' cottage could have fitted inside, and with space left to spare. The soaring ceiling was buttressed by marble pillars carved to look like mythical animals. There was a four-poster bed which could have fit ten, a bookshelf, a large sunken area which she surmised was for bathing, a fireplace with two armchairs and a rug in front of it, and even a bedroll on the floor which she realised was for her. The entire room was hung in Slytherin green and silver.

Who would have expected a room of this magnitude behind that utterly unprepossessing door?

"Merlin," Pansy said faintly. "It's as big as the throne room in Malfoy Manor!"

Privately Hermione agreed. She remembered how Malfoy had given her that sardonic look as they'd been entering, in response to her ill-concealed awe, and she wondered how he was reacting to this unexpected splendour.

"Come on, let's unpack and change," she said briskly. "It'll be time for supper soon, no time to waste!"

Their trunks had already been brought up by the footmen. She went to hers, which had been placed by her bedroll, and flipped up the lid. The clothes within remained in precisely the same arrangement as she'd put them in. Good; no-one had been snooping.

"You're right," Pansy said, apparently snapping out of whatever daze she'd been in. "We do need to change! Okay, time for your first test of skill as my lady's maid: what shall I wear to supper?"

Hermione went over to Pansy's trunk and examined the contents. "Um. This?" She held up a high-necked green robe.

"No, no, that's all wrong! It's evening, we need to show some bosom," Pansy said impatiently. "Here, I'll wear that red one you're holding." She promptly began to strip off.

Hermione regarded the red dress robes dubiously. That neckline was rather low, wasn't it? But she couldn't be bothered to protest, since it wouldn't do any good anyway. She dutifully laced Pansy in then changed into a fresh set as well.

"Let's go see Draco and Blaise's rooms now," Pansy said. "We have time before dinner."

"We don't know where their rooms are," Hermione pointed out. Pansy scoffed.

"Really, there's no need to stumble at the first hurdle! We'll _find_ their rooms. Honestly."

They wandered down the passageway. Their feet sunk into a plush scarlet carpet, eyes passing over curved walls hung with slumbering portraits. Most of the figures inside had white-blond hair and proud, merciless expressions on their aristocratically angular faces. Oh yes. These were Malfoy's ancestors, weren't they? After this realisation she began to pay closer attention to the portraits, seeing his nose here, his lips there. Watching the progression of these characteristics throughout the years was strangely fascinating. Some of the portraits were familiar to her because they also hung in Malfoy Manor, and as she passed more than a few waved to her.

Finally Pansy admitted defeat. "We're going in circles," she said, slumping against an expanse of empty wall. "Literally. I suppose we'll just have to wait till supper."

"We could always ask a portrait," Hermione said. "Excuse me, your highness?"

Every Malfoy male in the vicinity looked enquiringly at her.

"Crown Prince Armand, I mean," she clarified. The figure in question – Draco Malfoy's great-great-great-great-great-granduncle, who had died before inheriting the Sorting Hat – swept her a gallant bow.

"Miss Granger! What a pleasant surprise. You required my assistance?"

Hermione smiled. She did so like Armand; some of the older portraits tended to hiss expletives at her, outraged that someone of her blood inhabited their ancestral home, but he was one of the better ones.

"We're looking for Prince Draco," she said. "Do you know what room he's in?"

"Ah, my great-great-great-great-great-grandnephew," Armand said thoughtfully. "A wild one, that one. I believe you'll find him in Room 49. Or possibly 48."

" _Merci beaucoup_ ," Hermione called as Pansy began to drag her off.

"Here's 48 and 49," she said eagerly. "Which one shall we pick first?"

"48," Hermione decided, and rapped smartly on the door. It opened a few moments later to reveal the redheaded young man she'd seen outside.

"Yes?" he said, his brown eyes widening when he saw her. Then he looked past her at Pansy. His lip curled.

"What are _you_ doing here, Parkinson?"

"As your single brain cell should have told you, Weasel, I'm here for the Yule Ball," she snapped.

"As if. There's no way Harry would ever pick you, and Dumbledore isn't senile enough to think so. Who did you have to bribe to be let in?"

"Nobody. But at least I have sufficient funds to bribe people if needed," she said coolly. "Whereas you and your uncivilised tribe can't even feed yourselves, forget about greasing someone's palm to better your place in society."

"Now, now, Pansy, you ought to apologise," Malfoy's silky voice said from somewhere behind them. His normal bored tone had sharpened, softened, until Hermione felt it like velvet-covered claws being drawn over her skin. She shivered. That voice was _dangerous_. "Looking at his mother, no-one could ever doubt that they do, at least, manage to feed themselves."

"It's probably where all the money's gone in the first place," Blaise joined in. His eyes were gleaming with malice.

The redhead bared his teeth in a snarl and coiled as if to strike. "Fuck off, Zabini. We can't all have mothers who use murder as a source of income."

He raised an eyebrow. "Was that an accusation, Weasel?"

If Hermione didn't do something, blood was going to be shed. She could read it in the cruel anticipation on Blaise and Malfoy's faces and Pansy's narrow-eyed smile. He was a Weasley, of course they hated him – Slytherin and Gryffindor had an age-old rivalry, and not counting her, it was three against one. She cut in.

"Isn't someone going to introduce me?"

Pansy looked blankly at her for a second, as though she'd been so caught up in it that she'd forgotten who Hermione was, then her face cleared. "Hermione," she said, "meet Ickle Ronniekins, also known as Won-Won and Weasel. Weasel, this is my lady's maid Miss Granger. She might be a Mudblood but she's about ten thousand times better than you so you will refer to her as Miss Granger at all times."

"Ickle Ronniekins? Won-Won?" Hermione repeated.

Malfoy grinned at her. For once, there was no hostility behind it – at least, none directed at her – and it smoothened the sharp planes of his face.

"Yeah," he said. "That's what his dearest _Lav-Lav_ calls him."

"You shut your mouth," Weasley bellowed. "About my mum, about Lavender, all of it, or I'll ask Harry to –"

He stopped and breathed deeply, apparently overcome by the strength of his emotions. The tips of his ears were bright red.

"My dear boy, you really ought to learn to control yourself," a Malfoy portrait said lazily. "And as for you, descendant, I believe it's time for you to head down. Don't go stirring up trouble, now. We're watching."

"Yes, Grandmère," Malfoy muttered. "Come on."

He sloped off. Hermione cast a last glance at the fuming Weasley and followed.

* * *

 **Apologies for the length, but I wanted to give you something - I might not be able to until June 17th. :/**

 **Please review! And B, I swear I'll reply to you whenever I get a free moment...**


	7. Status Report

**MY EXAMS ARE OVER!**

 **I'm sorry this isn't a story update, I know how it feels when you see the email in excitement and then get let down. Just wanted to let you guys know that your patience will be rewarded, because I now have all the time in the world to write! When I'm not shopping or going on visits I've planned to Westminster Abbey and Windsor Castle. And even if my History GCSE was nearly as bad as Harry's.**

 **Non-fanfiction question: does anyone have one of Microsoft's Surface Pro models? Is it any good? Because I've been thinking about getting one.**

 **So yeah, look forward to an upcoming update, and in the meantime read one of the other Dramiones I've got up that I wrote for different fests. .nerd (you know, I've never asked you... what exactly are you being oblivious to?) I'm also going to be replying soon!**

 **Love you all!**


	8. Chapter Five: Mean Streak

**AN: For Ariel Riddle and weasleyey.**

* * *

 **Chapter Five: Mean Streak**

"That seemed… personal," Hermione commented as the four of them started descending the spiral staircase for dinner. "Is there a particular reason you don't like him?"

"He's a Gryffindor," Pansy said. "What more reason do we need?"

" _I'm_ a Gryffindor too. By birth, anyway," she pointed out.

Blaise snorted. "You don't count. Since you've apparently been taken under Draco's mother's wing, you're a Slytherin now. And besides, he was insufferable at school too."

"Him and Scarhead. It was fucking torture," Malfoy agreed. His pale brows were drawn together in a scowl. "Always had to go running off on their own, wowing the teachers with sheer stupidity, getting away with all kinds of bullshit just because he helped kill _him_ …"

"Someone sounds jealous," Hermione said, smirking. She was only partly teasing. He sneered at her as they came to the bottom step.

"I'm Draco fucking Malfoy, darling. People are jealous of _me_."

"There's the Draco we know and roll our eyes at," Pansy said. "Come on!"

A liveried servant directed them to a pair of smaller doors beside the ones which led to the ballroom.

"Names?" he said, quill poised over a piece of parchment.

"Prince Draco Lucius Malfoy, Marquess of Wiltshire. Lady Pansy Medusa Parkinson, the Honourable Blaise Zabini, and –"

Malfoy paused and glanced at her. "Got a middle name, Granger?"

"Jean," she said. He nodded and turned back to the servant.

"Miss Hermione Jean Granger."

The man was too well-trained to betray any surprise at her distinctly un-aristocratic name. "You may enter, my lords, my ladies," he said. "You will find your names by your assigned seats."

Malfoy inclined his head and swept past without a word of thanks; Hermione shot him a slightly uneasy smile to make up for it and followed.

The dining hall was about the same size as the one at Malfoy Manor. However, instead of a High Table paired with hundreds of smaller tables, there was a single massive table in the shape of a square which edged around the entire room. Already a few men and women in glittering robes were seated in their places.

"I'm here," Pansy said as they began to follow the lines of the table to find where they were. Her lip curled as she read the placards on either side of her. "Lord Gregory Goyle and Lady Cho Chang? Are they serious? He's bloody ugly and she's boring as death! Was that really the best they could do for me?"

Blaise sniggered. "Eighty Galleons the Weasel had something to do with it?"

"Done," Pansy said furiously. "He knows better than to try a stunt like that against _me_."

"He's a Gryffindor," Malfoy drawled. "They don't know any better. Let's go, Granger, before Pansy starts throwing a tantrum."

Hermione bit back a smile as she and Malfoy walked on. Point one in favour of Zabini, she thought. He had stayed behind – apparently to comfort her – while Pansy's other best friend had left without her.

"You're here, Granger," he said, pausing. "You get Goldstein and Abbott… not bad." He pulled the chair out and looked expectantly at her. Hermione blinked.

He raised an eyebrow at her stunned expression. "I _am_ a Malfoy, you know. I know perfectly well how to treat the lady I'm accompanying to a ball. Now, here's a hint, you say 'thank you, Draco' and smile prettily – if you know how – then you sit your arse down here, so that –"

"Thank you, _Draco_ ," she said, rolling her eyes at him as she sat. "Are you quite done?"

"For now," he said. "See you in a bit, Granger. Try not to perish of boredom without my scintillating presence." He sauntered off.

Hermione muttered a few choice things about his ego under his breath, but they lacked any real heat; she rather thought that Malfoy's outrageous bigheadedness was at least partially a front. _Surely_ nobody was that arrogant in real life.

Right?

"Haven't seen _you_ before," a voice commented, jolting Hermione out of her reverie. She jumped and turned.

"Oh! Lord Goldstein!"

Anthony Goldstein, fifth Baron Goldstein, dropped heavily into his seat beside her. It was common knowledge that he was a minor Ravenclaw noble who spent half his time trailing after Lord Potter. What was not common knowledge, but which Hermione knew thanks to her exalted spymistress position, was that he was a tad over-fond of the bottle. She eyed the full wineglass in his hand. In turn, he eyed her with undisguised interest.

"So, who're you?" he asked. "One of those Jorkins? You do have rather the look about you… but then, that hair! Who does it remind me of? A Slughorn, perchance?" He grinned rakishly and tilted the glass to his lips. Hermione smiled stiffly.

"I'm here in affiliation with Prince Draco Malfoy, my lord."

"The little Slytherin heir," Goldstein said. He stabbed a fork into the roast chicken that a silent servant had deposited on his place. She did the same. "What's Draco up to these days? Still raising hell? I'm in his year, you know, and the things he got up to – why, a mere mortal like myself would've seen my arse booted out like _that_ – but of course, Daddy was there to make it all better!" He bit down with slightly more viciousness than the task warranted.

Hermione gazed at him through narrowed eyes. He looked perfectly normal: agreeably, if blandly, handsome, with rich clothes befitting his station and alcohol-flushed cheeks. But that little tirade had held more than a hint of bitterness. She made a mental note to have him investigated more closely and smiled, relaxing into her chair. This was what she'd come here for. Now she was earning her keep.

"I can see how the prince might be permitted more leeway than the average student," she murmured.

Goldstein snorted on another gulp of wine. "And gods, did he know it. Anyway. You said you were here with him. What family are you from again?"

She made a split-second decision and hoped it would pay off. "I'm a Mudblood, my lord."

"A Mudblood," he repeated. He had gone motionless, and for a moment Hermione feared that she had made a mistake. But then a leer spread across his features. "Damn me, so you're his latest bit of muslin! I thought you might be a cousin or something. Well. This certainly changes things. And he actually brought you here? _Here_? His mother's such a stickler for the rules, old Cissy's going to _murder_ him. Such a mama's boy he is, too."

Hermione made diplomatic sounds of agreement, though Goldstein hardly seemed to need it.

"Go on, you can tell me," he said, leaning forward with a conspirational air. "How's the baby snake in bed? Terrible, I'm guessing. I mean, I know I could hear the girls he took up to his room moaning their heads off, but that's probably because they were hoping to be the next Lady Wiltshire, or something. Right?"

"Oh, the prince is dreadful," she said earnestly. "He's a horrible lover. He – he –" she searched for inspiration, her own forays into sex having been few and far between. "He climaxes far too early! After mere moments!"

Hermione fervently prayed that Draco never discovered what she had just said, or she was one very dead spymistress. Already she could see him turning his head quizzically from down the table in response to Goldstein's booming laughter – along with a large majority of the hall. She fixed a smile onto her face and silently commanded the drunkard to shut up.

He did so, finally, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes. "The baby snake comes too quickly? You, darling, have just made my day." He looked at her appraisingly. The wineglass was empty. "You're wasted on him, you know. How long has he contracted you for?"

"Until he gets tired of me," Hermione said.

Goldstein ran his eyes over her figure. He did not look lustful, precisely, but there was more in his face than the idle curiosity of before.

"Well, I've never known him keep a jade for longer than a week. What's he paying you? I can double it."

She allowed her incredulity to filter into her gaze. He shrugged.

"Okay, maybe not double it, but I'm sure I can match whatever it is he's giving you. You're a Mudblood, honestly, how much can you charge?"

"More than you can afford, my lord," she said. Her voice cracked over his skin like a whip; he visibly flinched, she noted with satisfaction, and returned his attention sullenly to his plate. But he'd be back. A boy like him wouldn't appreciate being bested by a girl like her. Yes, he was certainly one to watch.

Happy with the proceedings, Hermione concentrated on her delicious honey-glazed lamb.

* * *

"So, you and Goldstein looked cosy," Draco drawled.

The two of them were ascending the spiral staircase to their floor, Pansy and Blaise having gone on before. It was pitch-black, since the meal had lasted for hours with the traditional seven courses of a Yule Ball; the only illumination came from the occasional torch flickering in its bracket as they passed it. His hair gleamed like lightning in the gloom.

"He holds rather a _tendre_ for you," Hermione said, smirking. "Wanted to know what you were like in bed."

" _No_ ," he said. He stopped dead. His voice was weak with disgust. "Me? And Goldstein? _No_."

Stopping too, she bit back a laugh. "There, there, Malfoy. It's alright to like your own sex. Living in self-denial is not healthy, for you or for anyone. In fact – yes, I see it now! You poor boy, you thought having multiple orgies would somehow reaffirm that you weren't queer, didn't you? I'm sorry to inform you of this, but –"

"I. Am. Not. Queer." The words were a growl so deep she had to strain to make them out. "And if I were, I would die before touching Goldstein."

She reached her hand out to pat his arm. "Honestly, Malfoy, I know an excellent Mind Healer –"

One moment, her fingers were brushing at the slinky silk of his robes, feeling the hardness of muscle beneath. The next, her back was slammed against the wall of the staircase, her head crashing into an empty portrait frame as a pair of hands wrapped around her neck. Pain flared.

A wave of hot breath washed over her face. It stank of wine.

 _Draco –_

She needed to protect him, it was her job, his parents were counting on her. She could _not_ let the Malfoy heir die on her watch. She scrabbled blindly at the hands choking off her air supply, one hand seeking the knife she had strapped to her thigh. But she couldn't see anything and she couldn't breathe and where was her bloody knife and –

Suddenly the wrenching pressure around her throat was gone. She dropped to the ground, gasping in air, only dimly aware of the grunts and squeals coming from a few stairs higher up. By the time she had recovered it was over. Hermione stared.

" _Malfoy?"_

He looked… angry. Furious. Raging. His grey eyes blazed, face twisted in hatred as he hoisted himself, panting, to his feet. Her eyes dropped to the figure sprawled across the steps separating them.

"My gods! Malfoy!"

She bent down. Goldstein was still alive, but barely. The silver snake-handled dagger buried in his chest ensured that he wouldn't remain that way for much longer. He gurgled as Draco knelt and pulled it out in one fluid motion. Blood sprayed out of the wound.

"My gods," she repeated faintly.

Draco looked at her impatiently. "Honestly, Granger. Tell me you've killed people before."

"Of course I have!" she snapped. "I just…"

 _Didn't expect you to have_.

Though on second thought, she wasn't sure why. Both his parents looked capable of murder, which they were. She'd just thought their son to be too much of a pretty-boy rake to be the same.

Obviously, as Goldstein could have told her if he hadn't been dead, she'd been wrong.

Though damn, Malfoy looked hot like this, covered in blood he'd spilled himself, a gloriously angry expression on his face.

Angry? That someone had tried to kill her?

"What are we going to do with the body?" she hissed. "And the mess? And the _questions_?"

"Leave it to me," he said. "We'll just ask one of my relations. Now, would you like to explain to me what the hell just happened?"

She sighed.

* * *

 **New followers especially, review as an end-of-exams treat? :)**


	9. Chapter Six: Take It to the Grave

**URGENT AN PLEASE PLEASE READ**

 **Okay, so first things first: I AM SO SORRY FOR THE TWO YEARS I'VE MADE YOU ALL WAIT. I got kind of caught up in my academics, and I'm sorry for that. But I got a Cambridge offer! I'm honestly so so shocked. I still need to get the grades this summer though :(**

 **If I haven't replied to your review, I'm incredibly sorry - I've read and loved all of them, but I don't remember what I have/haven't replied to. I will of course reply to all reviews from now on. Speaking of reviews, emplease/em drop me a line if you've read this and liked it. It was hard to write, and I'm worried that I've lost the touch for this story, since I've left it so long. Let me know what you think!**

 **To my old readers, especially old friends who know who they are: you should probably reread this... To the new: Welcome!**

* * *

 **Chapter Six: Take It to the Grave**

"He's frightfully jealous of you," Hermione said. "Well. He _was_. Spent the entire dinner banging on about you, telling me how unfair it was that you got away with so much at school. A point I agree with him on, by the way," she added sententiously.

Draco rolled his eyes. "Spare me the lecture. So, how does that translate into an ill-judged attempt to murder you?"

"I doubt he was trying to murder me, actually," she said. "He was under the impression that I was your mistress. He probably was trying to rape me."

She said the words calmly enough, but her heart beat faster at the memory of scrabbling hands and wine-sodden breath. He reached out and awkwardly tapped at her shoulder. She frowned.

"What was that?"

He scowled. "That was _comfort_ , Granger, I'm sorry I bothered if – "

She didn't quite know what had come over her. One moment, they were standing a relatively respectable distance away from each other, sniping as usual; the next, she had her arms around him, and she had no idea how it had happened but she was _hugging him_ , and he was _hugging her back_ and he wasn't half bad at it either. She buried her nose into the juncture of his neck and shoulder, inhaling something spice-scented and no doubt expensive, whilst his pointed chin rested on top of her head. With a frisson of shock Hermione realised that she was shaking. She'd had a hard life, yes, but it had been so long since she'd had to put herself directly into the field and actually fend off rapists…

It was with more shock she realised that Draco wasn't using the hug as an attempt to feel her up. His large hands spanned her back, burning through the dress robes, and one of them lifted itself occasionally to pat her rhythmically. He was getting better at this comfort thing. Huh.

With rapidly-stifled disappointment she disengaged herself – his arms remained stiff for a second, as though unwilling to let her go, and she had to exert more pressure – and finally she drew back. Her gaze lifted cautiously to meet his. The silvery eyes dropped awkwardly, and he cleared his throat.

"So," he said. "Um. What do we do with the body?"

 _Shit, the body_! Hermione whirled around. Unfortunately, it hadn't vanished during her and Draco's little clinch. It still lay sprawled and malignant on the spiral stairs.

"So much for having done this before," she snarked at him. He scowled.

"I'm a _prince_ , I have people to handle the disgusting bits like body disposal for me."

Rolling her eyes, Hermione started to back off. Thank God they were back to their familiar bickering.

"You stay here and look after it," she said. "I'll go and find one of your ancestors, ask if they know any good hiding places."

"They're _my_ ancestors," he argued. "I should be the one to go and talk to them. Why don't you stay here and look after it? Besides, what do I do if someone comes? What do I say?"

"Nobody's coming, Malfoy," she said in a long-suffering voice. "There aren't many important people left downstairs still eating the second dessert course… Just the Duke of Hufflepuff, yes? And his niece, the Countess of St Mungo?"

"Grindelwald," he said. "Don't forget Grindelwald."

Hermione hadn't. Sir Gellert Grindelwald, the King's right-hand-man, was tall and golden, with burnished-bronze hair and an unlined face that belied his age, which was reportedly close to that of the King himself. Rumour had it that they had been friends from boyhood. As Dumbledore's chief advisor, his significance was unquestionably massive; he had of course been present at dinner, seated at the High Table by the King.

"He won't come upstairs," she said. "His quarters are closer to the ground floor, by Dumbledore's, so he can attend the King immediately if his presence is required. Now, will you stop whining and do as you're told?"

Ignoring his loudly muttered comments on her parentage, intelligence and appearance, she descended into the darkness.

"Crown Prince Armand?" she called softly. There was no reply. Hermione hadn't expected one. She had noted that there were very few portraits hung on the staircase: most of them decorated actual floors. A flickering torch revealed to her that even the one painting which graced this particular staircase was empty. She'd have to get onto the next floor.

It was past midnight. Luckily for her, nobody seemed to be stirring; doubtless everyone was busy getting their beauty sleep for tomorrow night, which would be the first night involving actual dancing and would last into the wee hours of the morning. She padded softly around the circular floor.

"Your highnesses?"

Most of the Malfoy portraits were asleep, and Hermione knew better than to wake them. Tamping down her rising frustration, she continued.

"Madame. You require assistance?"

The voice came from an area of wall she had passed already, believing all its occupants to be asleep, and she had to double back on herself. One of them seemed to have awoken. It was a boy – a young one, her age, sitting stiffly in a straight-backed chair inside a relatively small (though of course still ornate) frame. His large grey eyes blinked at her in a vaguely reptilian manner. Not Draco's eyes: Narcissa's. Tilted exotically at the corners, lighter and more penetrating somehow than the eyes of the Malfoys. Milky-pale skin, a face born to sneer, sleek jet-black hair; even had Hermione not memorised the appearances of everyone even vaguely connected to the four counties' ruling families, she would have recognised a member of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black.

"Mr Black, sir," she said, executing a deep and respectful bow.

Regulus Arcturus Black was Draco's first cousin once removed, the paternal nephew of Narcissa's father Cygnus III, who had overthrown King Abraxas VIII and been overthrown himself by that upstart Riddle. He had a portrait hanging in Malfoy Manor, of course, but she had never actually seen him in it.

"You're that Mudblood Granger girl," he said. "Cissy's spymistress. She says you're a good one." His voice was the harsh rasp of stone on stone; Hermione remembered that he had been tortured to death, which would probably explain it.

"I am, sir," she said, flattered that Cissy had evidently been gushing about her to her dead cousin. "I'm afraid Prince Draco – that is, Lord Wiltshire – and I have run into something of a quandary – we had to despatch an individual who attempted to attack us, and we would like to request some assistance in the matter of disposal."

He examined her. His gaze was flat and bitingly cold, like Narcissa's in a rage. Ice slid down Hermione's spine. He might be forever eighteen years old, but there was something ageless in his eyes, a kind of living darkness which trueborn Slytherins had.

"You are fortunate," he said at last. "The carpeting in the Tower is an ancient centaur gift – the blood will already have cleaned itself away. Take the body to the gardens. The Thestrals are always hungry, and they leave not even bones. Who was it?"

She bowed again. "Lord Goldstein, sir. Thank you."

"Goldstein," he repeated. "Ravenclaw, yes? I doubt you will have any problems – people might notice he is missing, but none will stir themselves to search. Sometimes I am of the opinion that those who inhabit Ravenclaw are of colder blood than we Slytherin serpents. Goodnight, Miss Granger."

"Goodnight, sir."

Careful not to turn her back on him – he might not be royal, or even actually titled, but he was a Black nonetheless – she retreated back to Draco.

"You took your time," Draco groused as she hurried up the stairs towards him. He was sitting several steps higher than the body, batting it lazily in the head with the tip of one glossy dragonhide boot. Hermione frowned.

"Stop that! The dead deserve respect."

He looked at her incredulously. "That bastard tried to kill us!"

"The dead deserve respect," she repeated. "I've had to assassinate in my time, of course, but I've never stripped them of their dignity…"

"You saint," he sneered, like it was a horrible insult, but he rose to his feet nonetheless. "Well? Which of my mouldering, dearly departed ancestors have you finagled into assisting us?"

"That would be Regulus Black," she said mildly. "Now, listen up, we need to get him out into the grounds for the Thestrals…"

When she levered the body up she found that he had been correct: there was no sign of blood left on the veiny grey stone. They had to hurry. Most of the guests might already be in bed, but she didn't want to risk coming across the odd straggler.

Draco's leanly muscled body was stronger than it looked. Together, they stumbled down eighteen flights of stairs to the ground floor, where Hermione paused, panting heavily. How were they going to get into the gardens? The door to the grounds was several corridors away, and involved passing the great dining hall, where pools of light still spilled out from whoever was still feasting. The blueprint of the Tower she had memorised contained no other method of entering the grounds. She communicated the problem to Draco, and could sense an eyeroll despite the darkness.

"Honestly, Granger, you call yourself a spymistress," he said. "I'm a _Malfoy_. My blood's been here for generations. I know all the secret ways, and conveniently for us there's a passageway which leads directly into the Queen Invidia Gardens. I just need to remember where it is…"

She ground her teeth. "All the secret ways were on my blueprint, Malfoy, I have access to only the best. Your mother gave me the blueprint herself!"

"Yeah, well," he said, smirking. "Here, hold him for a second, will you?"

Hermione staggered as he pushed the full weight of Goldstein's body into her arms and strode off to examine a row of suits of armour. "Git," she muttered under her breath. Gods, to think she'd voluntarily hugged him…

"Found it!" he said triumphantly. He pressed down on the pickaxe held by one suit. There was an almost inaudible grinding sound, and a section of wall behind the armour slid smoothly away. Hermione ground her teeth harder.

"It's not that my mother doesn't trust you, of course," Draco said airily as they stumbled their way along the passage, which had shut itself behind them. Hermione tried not to think about the two of them never finding the exit and suffocating here, in pitch darkness, where tiny bones crunched under their feet and the walls were so narrow that they brushed her shoulders on either side. It turned out that Draco was a good distraction.

"I mean, imagine if you'd been caught by Dumbledore and tortured to reveal all your secrets… wouldn't want all the Black-Malfoy Secret Ways falling into the hands of that little canker, would we? Especially not that Potter cunt!"

"Shut up," she snarled at him over her shoulder. But she didn't really want him to; his voice was a welcome reminder that it wasn't just her alone in this claustrophobic passage, dragging a murdered man's body behind her. So it was a good thing that he didn't oblige her.

"Honestly, you and your Mudblood manners. Believe it or not, only two people have ever told me to shut up in my life, and I had to seriously think hard about it before I decided not to have them tortured for their impertinence."

"Blaise and Pansy," she guessed.

"Indeed. I wonder what they're doing now?"

"In their beds, I imagine, like most sane people are at this time of night… A-ha!" she exclaimed joyfully as under them, stone and bones gave way to grass, and a cool breeze rustled over her face. A thin sliver of crescent moon gleamed faintly from far above.

The gardens, cultivated by Malfoy's great-great-who-cared-how-many-greats-Hermione-was-exhausted-grandmother Queen Invidia, were nothing but dark clumps; the only thing she could make out with any certainty was the koi pond several metres away from the tree base they appeared to have emerged from. She eyed it.

"How are we going to get back in?"

"Leave it to me, baby," he said smugly. She pulled a face at him.

"I'm tired, let's hurry this up. No time for you to go running your mouth."

"There's always time for my delectable mouth," he said, but he must be tiring too, because without too much comment they managed to make it to the herd of skeletal black horses grazing silently in a corner of the expansive grounds, outside the hedges which enclosed Queen Invidia's Gardens. As always, Hermione shuddered when she saw them. They weren't ugly – in fact, quite the opposite. Any dancer would have killed for the deadly grace of their bony limbs, and their wings of course were magnificent – several feet across and tipped with claws at the joints, a breath-taking display of muscle and bone. But something about them still set her teeth on edge, and she was glad to dump the body at the edge of the herd and return to the tree trunk. When she glanced back, she saw that the animals had engulfed the corpse and were already stripping it methodically of flesh.

* * *

"That went well," Draco said in satisfaction as they climbed the staircase once more, this time without being accosted by drunken attackers. Hermione sighed.

"We really could've done without it happening, I'm dead on my feet now."

"I'll walk you to your door," he said in a tone that brooked no argument.

When they reached it she hesitated. What should she do? A mere 'goodnight' seemed paltry, somehow. After all, they'd killed a man together and disposed of the body in each other's company. In her world, even sex was less intimate than that.

The pause had become awkward. She didn't quite dare to meet his eye, but she could sense the amusement radiating from him as he leaned against the wall like a big lazy cat, apparently in no hurry. She needed to get rid of him.

"Goodnight," she said, and before she could talk herself out of it she darted in, pressed a kiss to his pale cheek, and raced inside the bedroom.

Walking to his own bedroom, Draco kept pressing his fingers to the spot she had kissed, a distinctly dazed expression on his face that Hermione would have been gratified to see.

* * *

 **AN: If you haven't already, please read the AN at the top, and if you have, please review!**


	10. Chapter Seven: Earn Her Keep

**Chapter Seven: Earn Her Keep**

Pansy awoke the next morning in a surprisingly good mood, and as they prepared for the first night of dancing Hermione discovered why.

"You see, the problem," she confided as Hermione laced her into a set of silken red robes, "is that Blaise is very like his mother. Lovely woman, just like a third mother to me – after Cissy, of course – but they flirt like _mad_. Flirting is like breathing to them."

"Mm," Hermione said, remembering the seven husbands. She frowned down at a hairstyle manual. Pansy had picked number seven, the Desdemona, ignoring Hermione's frantic protests; it consisted of a mass of interwoven braids and looked slightly more complex than the implicit differentiation of theoretical vectors. Taking a deep breath, she pushed Pansy down at the dressing table and started brushing.

"So," Pansy continued, "I've always tried not to take Blaise too seriously… which hasn't actually been too hard, because he's not really a serious person. But last night we – _ouchouchouch_!"

A large clump of anaemic blond hair had come away in the bristles. Hermione cringed. "Damn, sorry."

"Try harder," Pansy snarled. "Honestly, why Avery couldn't have come with us too I shall never know…"

For all that she had proved surprisingly willing to confide in a Mudblood Gryffindor, Hermione was reminded that Lady Pansy Parkinson was still the daughter of a marquess, the blood in her veins not red but blue: sobered at the realisation, she returned to brushing her hair, as gently as she could manage.

"What was I saying? Oh yes, so last night Blaise walked me up to our room, and it was all lovely and dark, and naturally I couldn't invite him inside because that wouldn't have been proper at all but we had a wonderful conversation outside in the corridor. It made me realise that we don't really spend an awful amount of time with each other without Draco…"

Nodding whenever there was an expectant pause, Hermione devoted her full concentration to ensuring that Pansy was ready for a Yule Ball.

* * *

"Done," she said three hours later.

She stepped back to survey her masterpiece. As spymistress, she was of course well acquainted with makeup and its excellently disguising qualities, but very rarely had she ever had to apply it to someone else. The result was not displeasing. Pansy's ashy-pale cheeks had been given a pleasingly heightened colour with rouge, her lips similarly reddened; strategically placed bands of colour provided the illusion of higher cheekbones, while dramatic wings of kohl framed feline blue eyes. And if the Desdemona braids on her hair did not quite match the picture in the manual, very few would have been able to tell.

"Not bad at all, for a novice," Pansy said approvingly. "Just in time, too! Will you be coming down too?"

Hermione nodded. "Yes, this is the first night – it'll be a great opportunity for me to mingle with the other guests."

"You'd better get ready then," Pansy said, glancing at the discreet clock-face on the wall. "And make sure you're presentable, especially that hair of yours. I won't have anyone thinking a Parkinson hasn't employed only the best."

"I am the best. I'm the best _spymistress_ ," Hermione said pointedly. "Not lady's maid." She wriggled into the periwinkle-blue dress robes she'd bought at Twilfitt & Tattings. As usual, her hair was only marginally improved by a liberal squirt of Sleekeazy's Hair Potion, but the blue of her robes looked remarkably pretty against the caramel brownness of her skin, hair and eyes. Even Pansy pronounced her passable.

At precisely six minutes to seven there was a sharp rap at the door.

"That'll be the boys," Pansy said, moving gracefully to let them in. "Cutting it rather fine, weren't they – um…"

Her voice trailed off faintly. Alarmed, Hermione hurried to her side, and found herself struck similarly speechless.

Blaise and Draco stood in the doorway.

Their robes themselves were nothing to write home about. Elegant, yes, expensive, of course, but the same refined black-and-white combination would be worn by almost every male tonight. It was the _way_ they wore them: arrogantly, confidently, with a dash of careless rakishness (Hermione retained enough self-awareness to be horrified at what was undoubtedly the inanest thought she had ever had in her life) which somehow attracted the eye like a magnet. Blaise frankly oozed sensuality. The cheekbones of his unsmiling face could have cut glass; an aura of menace clung to every line of his muscled body, the kind of menace which would have quickened Hermione's heartbeat – had she not laid eyes on Draco.

In contrast, Draco was smirking. As Hermione's gaze collided – almost unwillingly – with his, his grin grew wider, wickeder, as though he knew precisely what she was thinking. Specifically, she was thinking that he looked like a fallen angel: his lips were red and lashes long without cosmetic aid, his face so perfect she clenched her fist behind her back to make sure she had not unwittingly reached out to touch it. The amusement in his eyes made her blood heat. Blaise was handsome, yes, but Draco – for whatever reason – took her breath away.

"You clean up alright," he said. His eyelids drooped as he scanned her length and paused on the swell of her breasts, arrested. She prayed her nipples hadn't peaked. "For a Mudblood, that is."

"You clean up alright too. For a prick, that is," she fired back and immediately felt more like herself, her nipples forgotten. For a fleeting moment she froze, wary of the outcome of speaking to such an exalted personage in a manner more suited for a guttersnipe, but he rocked back on his heels and let out a velvety chuckle.

"We should really head down now, you know. One isn't fashionably late to a Yule Ball. One is fashionably on time."

They both turned at Pansy and Blaise. The two were staring wordlessly at each other with rather gormless looks on their faces. Hermione darted a glance at Draco, who rolled his eyes at her in a weirdly companionable move and slapped Blaise's back.

"Pull yourself together, Zabini!"

Pansy averted her gaze, flushing. The four of them descended to the ground floor of the Tower in charged silence.

King Albus had outdone himself with the ballroom. Outside, the weather was bitterly cold, and it was shaping up to be the coldest Hogwarts winter on record; but inside it was crackling warm, like sitting by a good fire. The ballroom ceiling had been enchanted to mirror the star-spangled night sky. Every so often thick white flakes spiralled down to nestle onto people's heads. Hermione was amused to see that Draco rapidly acquired so many snowflakes on his white-blond hair that they glittered like a circlet of diamonds. A sign that he would wear the Sorting Hat one day? She didn't believe in portents of the future. But it was hard to deny that an indefinable sense of royalty dripped off him like cologne. If anyone in the room had been born to wear a crown, it was he.

The room was huge, but even still it was difficult to move easily through the crush of people. The mingled scents of hundreds of people rose into the air. Where the dining tables had been yesterday was a space cleared for dancing. On the raised dais at one end of the room was an orchestra – and, Hermione saw with a jolt, the king himself, sitting erectly in an old wooden chair.

She had only seen him in person twice before, and that from a distance. There was something simultaneously impressive and unprepossessing about him. Yes, he was nothing but an old (very old) man, with a trailing white beard, dressed modestly in midnight-blue robes with neon orange socks: but he was clearly extremely tall and his nose was straight and razor-sharp, like some great bird of prey. From behind half-moon spectacles his eyes were piercingly blue. Hermione felt a sudden sense that of relief that they were not fixed on her.

But of course. This was not any old man; this was Albus Dumbledore, who had slain the Dark Lord, a man whose viciousness had been even more legendary than that of the Blacks or Malfoys. Naturally he would be a formidable foe. She had known that two years ago.

She had chosen to throw her lot in with the Duke of Slytherin anyway.

"Hungry?" Draco asked her and Pansy. "They aren't serving a full dinner today, just canapes, so if you need anything –"

"I could do with some pumpkin juice," Pansy said. She had started fanning at the spots of hectic colour in her cheeks. It _was_ getting rather hot as more and more people packed themselves into the ballroom.

"I'll get it," Blaise said instantly and vanished into the crowd.

Draco snorted. "Requiescat in pacem, the old Blaise Zabini… shit, there he is."

"Who?" Hermione asked, though she already knew. Only a handful of people could bring out that tone in him.

" _Potter_ ," he and Pansy spat together.

The man for whom the whole Ball was being held, so that he could find a bride, had just ascended to the dais and strode over to the king. Harry Potter, second Viscount Potter, was not particularly tall – slightly shorter than Draco, who was himself perfectly average in terms of male height, though significantly taller than Hermione – and of slim build, with narrow shoulders and a catlike walk. But his elfin face was sharp with intelligence, and Hermione saw that his eyes behind their glasses were a shockingly vivid green. Against the backdrop of his white skin and black hair they shone like emeralds. A lock of hair obscured the famous lightning-bolt scar on his forehead he had received in the course of battling Riddle.

Draco was snarling softly under his breath.

"You really hate him," she commented unnecessarily. Lord Ronald Weasley had now climbed up too. His body seemed too big for him somehow, a fleshy contraption he didn't quite know how to manoeuvre. Perhaps his immense height was to blame.

"I fucking loathe him," he growled. "I offered him the _Malfoy hand of friendship_ , offered to take him away from those disgusting Weasels, and he dared to choose them! And if that wasn't enough, he threw Dumbledore's name around like Galleons, used it to get him out of every tight spot known to humanity, broke every rule in the book..."

"So did you," she pointed out lazily. He glowered at her.

"I'm a Malfoy."

She rolled her eyes. Slytherins were nothing if not hypocrites, but she was nothing if not practical; they had given her food, shelter, clothing, and a good job where she was able to use her large brain to its fullest. Gryffindor County had contained none of those things.

Speaking of her job – she stiffened as yet one more man loped onto the dais. The senses which had made her such a good spymistress were tingling. Sir Gellert Grindelwald's face was not at all representative of the eight or nine decades he had been alive: it was bright with good humour and barely wrinkled, his eyes a deeper blue than Dumbledore's, his hair still more golden than white.

There had been rumours, of course. There were always rumours. It was entirely possible that they were nothing more than the best of friends. In fact, by now most people had accepted this, citing the lack of any evidence whatsoever that their bond was not merely platonic. But, Hermione realised as she watched Grindelwald lean in to whisper something into the king's ear, this was not enough for her. She wasn't the best spymistress of her age for nothing. She was going to find some evidence – or she was going to manufacture it.

She didn't personally object to same-sex relationships, but Draco's great-grandfather King Brutus had banned them. Somehow neither Riddle nor Dumbledore himself had ever gotten around to repealing that particular law.

Blaise reappeared bearing a goblet of pumpkin juice which he thrust into Pansy's hand. "Never let it be said I do nothing for you, Fair Pans."

"Don't you dare call me that," she said, her eyes narrowing. Blaise's mouth opened to retort, but at that moment Dumbledore rose to his feet and the entire ballroom fell silent.

"Good evening, lords and ladies!" he said. His voice was not loud, but it still carried. "Welcome to the first official night of the Yule Ball. As your host, I bid you welcome, and may much merriment abound."

There was a storm of applause. Directly in front of the dais, by his feet, Hermione noticed a cluster of redheads who seemed to be clapping with especial enthusiasm: the House of Weasley.

"By my side," he continued, "is my heir, Harry Potter, in whose honour the Ball is being held. At the end of the week he will select his bride from. Eh, Harry?"

He grinned roguishly at Potter. A delicate blush had stolen into his cheeks. "Yes, sir," he said.

"And now, without further ado – let the dancing commence!"

* * *

"Right, I'm off," Hermione said briefly to Draco. The orchestra had just struck up playing; already Blaise had spirited Pansy away to the dancefloor, while Draco – dragging Hermione by the hand behind him – had made a beeline for the table of drinks. His cool palm in hers was surprisingly comforting.

"Fucking hell, this is daisyroot draught," he said with a contemptuous toss of his head as he swigged from a goblet. "I'm going to need some of Ogden's at the very least… wait, what do you mean, you're off?"

Hermione sighed. She was not used to explaining her every movement away while on assignment, but the little princeling seemed unusually determined to stick to her side. It was becoming annoying; she had a job to do after all.

"I'm. Off," she repeated. "Things to do, people to see, places to go…"

"What? Who? Where?"

"That's my business, Malfoy." She plucked a goblet of Butterbeer up and sipped carefully at it. His eyes narrowed.

"I'm your employer, Mudblood. I demand a status report. Future employer," he added as she started to remind him that his parents in fact paid her wages.

Well, he wasn't wrong. Glancing around to ensure that nobody was listening, she told him her recently formulated plan in a rapid rush of words.

"I'm going to seduce Lord Ronald Weasley."

It was a good thing there had been no drink in his mouth at the time, because he immediately started spluttering.

" _You – you're going to touch that – that – that filthy weaselly little_ –"

"Shut up!" she hissed. Her eyes roved their surroundings, forcedly casual. "You're going to attract attention!"

The sneer on his face was a work of art. "I do apologise, Miss Granger. I just misheard you for a second. It seemed to me that you'd suggested _willingly laying a hand on the poorest person in Hogwarts_."

"I doubt he's the poorest and anyway, Malfoy, poverty isn't a disease," she said, torn between amusement and exasperation. "I used to be poor."

"Yeah, but you lack the myriad other flaws he has in addition to being poor," he said. "Being a Potter toady. Being a _Dumbledore_ toady. Being thicker than two planks put together. Being – "

"I do whatever I have to do, Malfoy," she cut him off. "I'm a professional. Now, I'm leaving. You enjoy yourself."

"I wanted to dance with you," he said sulkily. She stared. His pout should be illegal.

"I'm sure you will someday," she tossed over her shoulder as she finally moved off, leaving him standing at the drinks table. "Maybe at your own bride-hunting ball, hmm?"

The sound of his infuriated growl was music to her ears.

* * *

Potter was dancing, sweeping along a pretty redhaired girl Hermione knew to be Lady Ginevra Weasley, but her brother Lord Ronald was not: he was leaning against a marble pillar next to the canape table, located at the other end of the ballroom from the drinks table. The intense crush of people was a godsend for Hermione, who barely had to feign her headlong stumble into his chest.

"Careful there," he said gruffly as he grabbed her shoulders to steady her. His blue eyes blinked down at her. "You alright?"

Hermione gaped at him, allowing her mouth to drop open slightly (but not enough to expose her overly-large front teeth). Her heavily kohled lashes fell. Blinking faster, he pulled at the collar of slightly-too-tight dress robes in a deeply unfashionable shade of yellow.

"Sorry," Hermione fluttered after a long pause. Her face was scarlet. "I just – it was just – you're – you're really tall," she got out.

He straightened imperceptibly. It was true; he was several inches taller than either Draco or Potter, slightly taller even than Blaise.

"Thanks," he said, grinning at her. "What's your name, then?"

She wondered if he had forgotten her face from yesterday. She was wearing makeup now, but still… "Hermione. And you, my lord?"

"You can call me Ron," he said. She giggled and tucked some hair behind her ear. Her eyes were demurely cast downwards.

As she had hoped, the giggle gave him self-confidence. "Would you like to – um – dance, Hermione? I think there's a waltz coming up now."

"My lord! That would be amazing!" she gushed.

"I told you, please, call me Ron," he said as they made their way to the dancefloor. Out of the corner of her eye, Hermione caught sight of a dazzling blond head which could belong to none other then Draco, but she determinedly kept her attention fixed on her prey.

"Alright… Ron," she said breathily. As the dance progressed his hands dropped ever lower, until he was almost caressing her buttocks. She maintained the giggling breathlessness which seemed irresistible to him: when the waltz was over he suggested going to get a drink, which she turned into more drinks, and then led him back onto the dancefloor. As soon as they were off it she steered them towards the drinks table once more.

Unfortunately for her, he did not seem naturally inclined to the stronger drinks like Firewhiskey, but he did imbibe them occasionally, and he had consumed so many goblets of wine that several hours later he was quite blotto. She rather thought that the steady drinking was for courage. He and a certain undistinguished Gryffindor named Miss Lavender Brown had reportedly been on the verge of becoming affianced when she had abruptly severed the relationship; no doubt it was difficult for him to forget the blow. Hermione did her best to encourage him by getting closer and closer to his body as the night went on and laughing gratifyingly loudly at his jokes.

Finally, her patience paid off. At one of the clock in the morning he wrapped his arm around her in a disgustingly familiar move. "Wanna go up to my bedroom, sweetheart? For some – _hic_ – privacy?"

"Oh! Ron, you scoundrel!" She swatted him playfully on his chest and he preened. Please," she added in a lower voice, meeting his slightly unfocused gaze.

His hand toyed with the fabric over her stomach as they left the ballroom. It was only marginally less full than it had been before: Blaise and Pansy were still there, as was Potter, although Dumbledore and Grindelwald had disappeared. She didn't see Draco. For a moment she pictured him with some faceless girl, touching her the way Ron was touching her right now, and felt a stab of something she had to stifle hastily.

 _Not my business. I have a job to do_.

Halfway to his room it seemed Ron's patience had run out. Spinning her round so that her back was to the wall, he dove straight in. She'd had worse kisses, but his tongue in her mouth was like some wine-sodden, slobbering beast's, and his hand pawed blindly at her breasts through the robes. She participated dutifully in the kiss for several minutes before disengaging herself.

"Ron, please, your bedroom, now, I can't wait any longer - I need you –"

"Bedroom, right," he muttered. "Here –"

He kept her body tucked close to his as he scrabbled at the lock and finally managed to wrench the door open. Hermione had a vague impression of a soaring ceiling and red-and-gold hangings in the dim light before he threw himself back into the kiss with gusto. Slowly she wound her arms around his neck, rubbing her body against his and moaning loudly.

Then her fingers pressed down on a point on his neck and he went out like a light.

* * *

 **AN: This is the longest chapter I've ever written - and I think the quickest update time too! Not to pressure you guys or anything, but if you wanted to say thank you, you know where the review button is :D Thank you so so much for my reviews last chapter, especially guests I can't reply to. Your comments keep me going and motivated to write this story. I hope you like this chapter! :)**

 **This chapter's for one of my real-life best friends, affectionately nicknamed the Cow, mostly to make her shut up about updating the Bellatrix story I haven't written in five years...**


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